


Kiara Moriarty - Shadows

by Valkyrie_of_the_Dead



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Betrayal, Friendship, Gen, Panic Attacks, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 77
Words: 101,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valkyrie_of_the_Dead/pseuds/Valkyrie_of_the_Dead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time I meet him is at night in a dark museum, and I wake up in his flat. The second time I meet him he is a dead man and he stays at my flat.<br/>How can he, Sherlock Holmes, and me, Jim Moriarty's daughter, get along?</p><p>I'm going to post this story now as it has been written for ages, I'll try to get it done as soon as I can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

I smile when I see that my attacker is as tired as I am. I block the knife he's trying to stab into my abdomen, and jump forward to cut into his arm. He blocks as well and I frown slightly. This one is good. This one is very good.

One the barely audible whisper of a knife moving rapidly through air warns me as another attacker comes from behind me. It's luck now, fifty-fifty chance what he is trying to do. He either thinks I haven't heard him and will lunge directly at me, or he knows that I know that he's there, and will do a circle with his knife. In a split-second, I decide to risk it and jump backwards, turning slightly so I can see where the second attacker is. I was right. But then again, he had been very quiet, and I had been lucky that the sounds of my fight with the other attacker had stopped in that exact moment, if just for a second.

When I suddenly feel a sharp, hot pain in my ribs, I curse myself. I had been thinking too much and hesitated for a second. The first attacker had used that moment of unawareness to attack.

I fall to the floor and try my hardest not to scream while the electricity curses through me. When my body finally stops twitching, I look up to my attackers.  
David smiles and stretches his hand out. I take it and he pulls me to my feet. Andy chuckles and pats my shoulder.  
"You alright, kid?" he asks and I nod.  
"Kiara!" a voice says and I look up. A man stands outside of the ring we were fighting in and looks at me.  
"Father," I answer and smile. I haven't seen him for a few days and it's always nice to have him back.  
"You did well until David came. You need to concentrate, Kiara, that was foolish. Even a ten year old could have killed you in that moment." He chides me. I bow my head and nod. It's not that I am going to cry or that I don't understand, but I am disappointed in myself. Finally Father is back and the first thing I do is embarrass myself.  
"You did well, spitfire. Just don't get distracted any more." He tells me and I nod again.  
"Continue," He commands and this time David is my first attacker.

* * *

* * *

The steam coming from the shower calms me and I can feel myself relaxing. Not entirely, of course, but a bit. It will help when I am finally under it. I take off my clothes and step under the water. It is hot, nearly too hot, but I enjoy it. The water makes my red hair go dark, and it clings to my skin. As I wash the sweat of my skin, I smile. Everything is perfect. Father is home and so am I. It's rare, but when it happens, I am happy.

* * *

I go downstairs when I hear quiet movements in the kitchen. Father is cooking and singing at the same time and I join in. We both love this song, it's Father's ringtone, and exactly that damned phone goes off right now. I hate that phone. It reminds me of many things, all of them bad. All the countless time when it had interrupted our day and Father had to leave, all the times when he would call with exactly that phone and tell me to run and hide, which I had done so many times in the fifteen years I have been on this world, or my worst memory, when he had left me for weeks and I had nothing but that damned phone. But Father still keeps it and I don't say anything.

Father frowns at the text he received and sighs, closing his eyes. I know not to interrupt him now, even though I want to, i want to scream at him not to leave me again, I want to grab the damn thing out of his hands and smash it on the floor. But I don't, because I don't dare. I don't want to imagine what he might do.

His eyes snap open and he looks at me, up and down, and smiles. I smile back shyly, even though I'm singing and dancing on the inside. This is a special smile. It means that he wants me to do something, and only I ever get it. It is one of his most genuine smiles, and in that smile I can see how much he loves me.

"I need you to do something, Spitfire. Will you do that for me? Will you help me?" He asks and I smile again. He only asks me. He commands the others. But I am special, and I know that I'll always do everything for him, just so I can see that smile and so that he will be proud of me.  
"Yes, Father," I answer and smirk. "Of course I will."

  



	2. The Job?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiara has a job to do and meets some quite recognizable persons - in a dark museum.

I wake up the next morning feeling as refreshed and happy as I hadn't in a long time. It is slightly depressing to know that my happiness depends so much on Father's well-being and presence, but I don't really want it any other way. I don't want to cut myself off him and his weird and wonderful being. A look at my watch tells me it is eight o'clock and I know that I need to get up. Father told me to be downstairs at half eight to discuss the plan and I want to be ready.

After a quick shower I put on jeans and a t-shirt and go downstairs barefoot and with my wet hair on a towel I have around my shoulders. Although I am early, Father is already sitting there, concentrating on a folder with data I don't recognise, but I don't ask. I know that he will tell me everything I need to know. He looks up when I enter and I smile at him before I go to the fridge. Before long the eggs and the bacon are sizzling in the pan and I turn around, leaning on the counter.

“Father,” I say and look at him expectantly.  
“Spitfire. I will tell you soon, don't worry, but let's eat first, shall we?” Happiness spreads through my body as I hear him calling me that name. It's his nickname for me, and he doesn't use it very often, just when he's pleased. That he used it three times in less than twenty-four hours is almost a high score. I nod and turn back to our breakfast.

When the food is ready, I put it on plates and give one to Father, and I feel my happiness once again when he smiles at me.

“So, Spitfire, I have a job for you. I think you are ready to do this one, it is a harder one. But still, you should be able to master it without problems if you don't get distracted.” He smirks and I can feel myself blush. He touches my cheek and I look in his eyes again, as he starts to explain what he wants me to do.

* * *

 

One hour later I rise from my chair. My job is at midnight, so I have the whole day to myself, even though I'm not allowed to really train. Some easy stuff yes, but Father doesn't want to risk me getting hurt before this job.

With my father's permission, I send a text to one of my best and closest friends, although I don't have many. I still think she's an amazing friend and she is. She is one of the few who I let come close to me and who Father approves of.

_Irene._

She will know who I am, and I am right, barely ten seconds later my phone makes the text alert noise.

_Sweetie. I have time in ten. Xxx_

I smirk and go outside to catch a cab. It isn't hard, the cabs around here know me and know that I do give good tips. Father doesn't.

* * *

 

Exactly ten minutes later I stand in front of a small, but elegant brick house. Irene moves quite a lot, but the last time I met her she lived here and she hasn't given me another address.

Kate opens the door for me and I greet her with a nod. She smiles back and leads me into the cosy living room. I sit there and can't help but admire Irene's amazing sense of design. The room is held in warm colours and the small fireplace is lit. A few moments later The Woman enters in all her beauty and I jump up and go to hug her. Even though she is about twenty years older than me and I can always talk to her. It's not that I can't do the same with Father, he would have time for me, if not much, but still. There are some things a girl doesn't really want to talk about with her father.

I kiss her on both cheeks and then pull away to admire the dress she's wearing. The creamy-white fabric hugs her body and shows her curves off. Around her neck she's wearing a golden necklace with a tiny diamond, which makes her look beautiful, but somehow shy and innocent at the same time. I giggle at that, Irene is beautiful, but she is neither shy nor innocent.

I laugh about her confused face and when I explain everything it takes ages until we stop laughing. I notice only then that Kate is gone and we haven't got tea or similar. It isn't hard to make the deduction.

“Just had a client?” I ask and she smirks.  
“I bet he didn't take it too well... Did you drug him?” I wonder and I know that I am right when she smiles mysteriously. Even though I know I shouldn't, I feel sympathy towards that unknown person. Irene drugged me once because I dared to threaten her and I can still remember the confusion, nausea and fear that came with it. Not to mention the pain of her riding crop on my arms, ribs and back. She is my friend now, so I will not do it again, but even if she wasn't, I'd only go against her with Father on my side.

When she leads me into her bedroom I can feel the happiness again. I wonder why I'm so happy today, but I don't know, and honestly, I don't mind.

We both take our clothes off and she cuffs me to the bed. She teases, and I hate and love it at the same time. Then my brain stops and I surrender to the mixture of pleasure and pain.

* * *

 

At about twelve I hug her and say goodbye to Kate. Even though every second I spend with Irene is wonderful, I always go after less than four hours. I don't want to get addicted to her and I normally I don't have this much time.

After a shouting match with a cabbie, I am home in fifteen minutes. It doesn't take long to change into fresh clothes in which I can train, and after ten minutes I've also found Andy and David. It doesn't need much to convince them to train with me, as I know them since I was five. After a careful but thorough warm-up, Andy and I start fighting with sticks. We are careful and move pretty slow because we don't want to hurt each other today. Yesterday was different, although we use safe weapons most of the time which can't really kill anyone, every third day we use knifes, which aren't sharp but have a taser with a low voltage in them, so that if we would really hurt each other with real knifes, we just get stunned. It isn't very pleasant, but we started something like a competition between us three, who could shock the others the most. The reason why Father told us to use them was that we wouldn't lose the fear of weapons.

Six hours later I am tired, but not overly so. Nothing a good nap wouldn't change, so I go upstairs and shower. Father already put out some clothes he wants me to wear while I'm doing the job and I have to admit, they are good. The soft fabric won't make any sound when I move and it is grey-black. It is perfect, as the mixture of light and dark with blend in perfectly while I'm in dark corners. Black wouldn't do, it wouldn't hide me, it would make me stand out as a black figure.

I put on a wide top and sweatpants and go to my bed. As soon as my head touches my pillow, I'm out.

* * *

 

I wake up at eleven pm and get up quietly. I'm dressed in no time and I go downstairs to Father's study. There is a ray of light beneath the door so I knock and enter. Father is reading that folder again, and puts one finger up to tell me to be quiet. I wait patiently until he looks up.  
“It's time, Father. Is there anything else I can do while I'm on the job?” I ask and he shakes his head.  
“The car is waiting for you. I'll see you tomorrow, Kiara.” He says and I walk forward and touch his cheek with my fingertips. It is our way of saying I love you. I have never received a kiss from him and I don't mind. It is just the meaning you put to a gesture that so many people need, and when you change the art of doing it, but not the meaning, it doesn't matter. He doesn't hug me any more, but that means nothing. He only ever did it when I was scared, and that didn't happen any more.

Father smiles and touches my cheek as well.  
“Have fun,” he jokes and I leave.

* * *

 

Father's car drops me off at the biggest museum of London and I look up to it in awe. It is my second time I have been here and the last was a few years ago. I put my pony-tail in my hood and start picking the lock. Finally it clicks and I go inside.

There isn't any disturbance until I reach the second floor. It's not much, but I can see a bit of dirt on the floor and there are disturbances in the dust. No fingerprints, the other intruder must have worn gloves. I am pretty sure no one is in here any more, as the front-door was locked when I came and no one could have gone past me. Because – who would lock the door again before he left?

I walk into two more rooms and freeze before I enter the third. I can hear movements in the room before me and I can't help being worried. I was quiet while I walked in here, but not so that you couldn't hear me at all. Footsteps come closer and I hide next to the door. Then I can get a good glimpse of the man. He is only a bit taller than me and wearing all black. I nearly chuckle at that, but stop myself and attack him instead. I want to know what he does here and I can't risk hiding for he would have an advantage, if he were to find me.

He lets out a startled shout of surprise which turns into a shout of pain when I use my knife to cut through his biceps. But he is quick and he is good. If I had to guess I'd say trained fighter, but I can't be sure. I know it was a bad idea to attack him when he manages to disarm me after a minute. I was trained my whole life for jobs like this and I don't want to know how good this man really is when he is able to disarm me this fast.

I jump towards him and he neatly steps out of my way. I stumble slightly which he uses instantly. He kicks my leg and I fall to my knees. Only barely I manage to roll out of his way and away from the kick which would have hit my head and rendered me unconscious within seconds. I get up gasping for air and am frustrated when I see that the man is out of breath, but not as much as I am.

The next seconds are a blur. When I try to hit him, he catches my arm and flips me over his shoulder. The impact knocks all air out of me and I struggle in a hopeless attempt to get up again, even though I know I won't succeed. Suddenly I feel a heavy weight on my chest as he pins my arms next to my head with his knees and puts pressure on my shoulders, so I don't have any chance of getting free. The weight stops me from struggling as he sits with his knees on the pressure-points in my wrists. The pain makes my eyes water, but I stare defiantly up at him when he removes my hood. His eyes widen in surprise when he sees that I am a fifteen year old girl. Finally I get a good look at him. He is in his late thirties or early forties and has blond, but greying hair which is cut in a short style. His face would look kind, if he weren't pinning me down and hurting me at the moment. I suppose the fact that he is staring at me with his narrowed blue eyes and a grim expression on his face is a big factor as well.

“Sherlock!” He shouts and all my hope vanishes. Sherlock... The odds that he isn't who I think he is are small. And if he is, I have a problem. Another pair of footsteps comes rushing towards us, not bothering to be quiet, and the man who makes these footsteps is shouting.

“John? JOHN?” He calls with a deep baritone voice, but I can't really concentrate. The pain in my wrists is getting worse and I am desperately trying to figure out an escape plan.  
Then the new man bursts into the room and I can't stop the tear that runs down my face and into my hair. Father told me a lot about him. That man is responsible for Father's absence of ten weeks that are burnt into my memories as the dark days. Father picked me up and continued where we had left, but from then on he was the middle of my universe. And exactly that man, Sherlock Holmes, is now here in the room, as his companion John Watson is holding me down on the ground. And he is still working against Father.

Watson looks up to Holmes and tells him with a quick nod that he's okay. I can see Holmes shoulders sagging with relief and store that away for later. Of course, Father told me that the two of them were close, but I didn't realise how close. Now I do, and I know that at some point of our encounter I will be able to use it.

My knife is lying just a few feet away. Maybe – yes! Holmes and Watson aren't concentrating properly on me and I know that this could be my only chance. I twist my hip and push upwards with my shoulders and Watson falls off me. He is stunned for a moment, I think he hit his head quite hard. I am already on top of him and desperately searching with my right for the knife, when somebody else, probably Holmes, grabs me by my collar and pulls me up. My collar chokes me and I stagger backwards, right in the arms of Holmes. He is quick, he really his, maybe even quicker than Watson, as he puts his arm around my neck. I am now in a choke hold and because Holmes is so much taller than I am, I can only stand as straight as possible, for the choke would get worse if I didn't. Before I can even think about struggling, I feel the cold metal of a gun on my temple and I stay still.

How is this possible? It should have been an open and shut job, Father would never let me go otherwise. That means that Holmes is faster than Father believes. And that is bad.  
Holmes shakes me and asks me for my name repeatedly but I think I am getting a panic attack. I can only guess, I've never had one before...

“Sherlock,” Watson warns and Holmes makes me sit down, the gun still trained on my head. His aim doesn't waver. Watson comes towards me but I cannot look at him. My chest feels too small, I can't breathe, the cold metal on my temple is spreading out and taking over my heart, stomach and lungs...  
“Sherlock, point that damn thing somewhere else!” Watson says harshly and after a moment the cold metal on my temple leaves. Watson puts his hands on my shoulders and tells me to breath with him, and slowly I can breath again. I look at him, almost gratefully and now I can see the kind smile that I knew belonged on his face.  
“What's your name, sweetie?” he asks, but I don't answer. I can't. If they found out who I am... He seems to give up now, and just looks at me. Suddenly Holmes gasps and I feel a sharp pain on the back of my head. While I'm falling, falling, falling backwards I realise that he hit me over the head with the gun. And in the split-second before I close my eyes, I hear Holmes's voice.  
“Moriarty! She's his daughter.”  
And then everything goes black.


	3. 221B Bakerstreet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We can't just keep her here, Sherlock! She is a fifteen year old girl, we are going to be in trouble anyway for sneaking into the museum and hitting her like that!” Watson shouts.

The first thing I hear are raised voices. They sound familiar, but I can't match them to any name. There are two men, arguing, shouting, about something my groggy head couldn't understand. Finally I am able to open my eyes I can see that I am not, in fact, at home. I am sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair with arm rests. The next thing I realise is that I can't move. Someone secured my arms on the armrests and my ankles on the legs of the chair with tape. There is some tape around my upper arms and the back of the chair, probably to keep me from falling forward. Somehow I am grateful for that, as that would have been even more embarrassing.

I look around the room I am sitting in. The walls are dark, and so is the floor and most of the furniture, but still the room manages to look cosy and inviting. The voices I can hear come from behind me, so there must be at least another room. Then I start to notice little things. There are burn marks on the small coffee-table in front of the sofa, a bison skull with head-phones on the wall and on the mantelpiece sits a human skull. It looks pretty real and I frown. Where am I?

The voices behind me get louder and more distinctive.

“We can't just keep her here, Sherlock! She is a fifteen year old girl, we are going to be in trouble anyway for sneaking into the museum and hitting her like that!” Watson shouts.  
Holmes' voice is not as loud, but just as angry, a dark, dangerous growl.

“Even if Lestrade arrests her, he wouldn't be able to hold her for long. Either way, she would be out seconds after we leave the building! Think about who her father is, John. He won't choose to let her stay there.” Watson is quiet for a second, but when he answers, he sounds really angry.

“I know, Sherlock. How could I not?” Holmes doesn't know the answer and I am left very confused.  
I can hear Watson leaving the room and coming towards me. I look up when he stands in front of me. He looks at me and smiles kindly.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, but I just stare at him. How am I supposed to feel? I feel sore and beaten and my head is throbbing.  
Watson asks me a few questions to check whether or not I have a concussion, but because I obviously don't have one, he moves around me again and carefully touches the wound at my temple. I hiss when he starts looking at it.

“You're lucky. Sherlock didn't actually damage anything that won't heal within a week, so I think you're fine,” he says quietly.

When I hear Holmes walking towards us, I know that this was just the beginning.  
“Miss Moriarty, I am surprised to see you – Actually I didn't think you existed. But anyway, how is your dear father?” he asks with his smooth voice, but I only glare at him. He sighs and looks at me, really looks at me, and I feel somehow exposed. He frowns, but doesn't comment on it when he looks at my face again.

“Moriarty, I don't think you are in the position to really pull this through. Because, even though you think you are safe because you listened to our conversation just then, you should remember a thing I said to your father some time ago: I don't have a heart. So, Moriarty, tell me what I want to know, or... Well, let's say not only your father knows how to hide a body.” He smirks a little and for one second I am really scared. But then my anger takes over.

“Did you know I have a first name, Mr Holmes? I don't expect you to know it, but still, you might use it. My name is Kiara Moriarty, I am the daughter of James Moriarty, the consulting criminal, and I think neither him nor you will be too happy if he had to attack you. Father is a very busy man, so I suggest you just let me go now and I might forget to mention this little encounter to Father.”I say quietly, but angrily. Holmes just chuckles.

“I haven't seen him in a long time. Now, Kiara, I think... yes, we'll need to have a little break in our meeting. Lestrade will be here in a few minutes, and I don't think we'll tell him yet that you're here. John?” he answers me, just as quiet, but not angry, rather amused.

Watson uses a knife to cut me free, but keeps his hand on my shoulder. When I stand up, my knees buckle. How long was I out? Watson catches me and chuckles.  
“Come on then, Kiara,” he says, “Do you think you can manage stairs?”

I think for a moment, but shake my head. Firstly because I really don't trust my legs enough, but also to keep my escape route short. Watson smiles and leads me to a door, which opens into a bedroom. The room is, other than the living room, tidy and almost blanc. On the wall is a poster with the periodic table and on the small table next to the bed is a picture of Edgar Allan Poe. The bed itself is a double bed, with thick, creamy-white sheets, but it doesn't look very used.

I sit down on the bed and look up to Watson.

“Kiara, we have a problem. Well, Sherlock and I do. We can't really let you go. Your father does know where we live and how we live and everything, so we don't think you're a spy, but if you are like your father, then... Well, we don't want another consulting criminal. But first, do you really know who your father is and what he does?” he asks quietly. I frown at him, but answer anyway.

“Of course I do. Father is James 'Jim' Moriarty, consulting criminal, he organises crimes. Happy?” Watson just sighs. I don't really know what to do. He seems nice, and I think in another life I would have liked him. But he is the best friend of Father's nemesis.

“Kiara, I... I am sorry for Sherlock's and my rude behaviour, but your father caused us both quite much trouble. To be honest, there isn't really a plan about what to do with you. But for now, I'm sorry, I need to give you a sedative. We can't really trust you to be quiet, when Lestrade is quite a good escape route. Take your shoes off, will you, and then lie down, okay?”

I do as I am told and he takes a small needle out of his pocket. With the small pin-prick comes the numbness, and I sleep.


	4. I am my father's daughter

I was brought up in a quite weird way. I started taking drugs with permission of Father when I was nine. Of course not that much, but it was and still is my training against drugs. My resistance against drugs is quite well, especially with some drugs. A few months ago, in the Dark Days, I had taken drugs every day and without a care. Father's absence was painful for me, and the drugs were my soothing hand. In fact, the day Father came back, I was so high I was sure he was a hallucination. He made me go through withdrawal for a week and under his command I started my training again, although this time just with sedatives.

I remember all this when I wake up, though I keep my eyes closed. I strain my ears in the hope to find out where Watson and Holmes are. It isn't hard, neither them nor the third man, who are in the living room, are quiet. They are arguing, and I smile widely. The third man is probably Lestrade, and he is - what did Watson say? - a good escape route.

Without making a sound, I get up and start looking through the drawers. Maybe Holmes, I am pretty sure this is his room, has got something I can use. After all, he must have many enemies. And I am lucky – in the top drawer of his night stand is a small handgun with bullets. I put them in the gun and pick it up. It feels good in my hand, it isn't as big as the ones Father has and my hands are quite small. I might even keep this one.

I can still hear the arguing, especially the voice of Lestrade, so I am sure I still have time. With a bit of luck they didn't search me – and yes, today seems to be the day of extremes, I have a lot of luck, but also a lot of bad luck. Father often tells me off, but I never change it; my I-phone is on silent. Today I am grateful for that. Watson told me Father has surveillance on them, so maybe I can use that. I touch the 'fail-safe' button Father told me only to touch in an emergency and hope it will be helpful. I have never done so before, as I am scared of what Father might do when he finds out, and he will find out.

The screen shows a lot of buttons. There are many that I don't understand, but the last one is labelled 'Database'. I open it and breath in sharply. In it are all of Father's apps, one of them surveillance. On the top of the list which now opens is something called '221B'. I can barely stop myself from laughing out loud, and tap on it. There, I can see the living room, and in it Watson, Holmes and the man who I think is Lestrade. No problem. I put my phone in my pocket, leaving the app open, and grip the gun with both hands. When I kick the door open, everyone looks at me in surprise and I suppress a smirk.

"Hands up, now!" I say loudly and point the gun at Lestrade. As all of them comply, I go closer to Lestrade and finally touch his temple with the barrel of the gun. In his eyes is a flash of fear, then he opens his mouth to protest, but I tap with the gun against his head. He closes his mouth again and I smile.

"Mr Holmes, explain!" I order, and Holmes frowns, but does so when I glare at him.

"This charming girl is Kiara Moriarty, daughter of Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal, the bomber. Yesterday when John and I were in the museum at night for a case, she attacked John, he overpowered her and after I deduced who she was, we rendered her unconscious. John and I planned to question her, knowing that if we called you, she would be freed by Moriarty as soon as we left the building. So, we kept her here, and then you came." He says in a strained voice.

"Well done, Mr Holmes. Didn't think you would be bothered by me pointing a gun at Mr DI. Anyway, thank you very much, Dr Watson, for your flattering view of my innocence when you think about drugs. It has been very useful, and also your comment about Mr DI being an escape route." I smile at him, but he doesn't do the same.

"Kiara," he says, "think about what you are doing! Do you really want to kill this man?"

"Yes. Now, shut up, in the moment you are my favourite of you three, but that might change. Anyway, you all know that Father has surveillance on this flat. I have access to it. You two are going to sit in your chairs while Mr DI and me are going. If you two are moving as much as a muscle, idiot will die. If you are good, I'll let him go. I will communicate with you via the speakers in the flat, as in when you are allowed to move. Understood?" I say in the same light tone I used in the whole conversation. Both of them nod and at my sign, sit down in their chairs, but still with their hands up.

"As soon as DI Lestrade and I are outside the house, you may take your hands down, but don't you dare move otherwise! Pleasure meeting you, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. Come on, Mr DI," I command, and point the gun now at Lestrade's back with my right hand. With the left I pull out my phone.

Once outside the house Holmes and Watson take their arms down, but to my surprise, neither of them speak or move, if you don't count Holmes searching for cameras only with his eyes. Two hundred yards away the is a little alley and I push Lestrade in it. I turn off the micro of my phone and smile.

"Pleasure meeting you, DI Lestrade." I say, and hit him over the head with the gun. He is unconscious instantly and drops to the ground. After I leave the alley, I smile at a security camera, and then go and hail a taxi. Luckily, the cabbie doesn't notice the gun I now have in my pocket and I tell him a street which is next to the one with our house. After that I turn my micro on again and look at the screen. Both Holmes and Watson are still sitting in their chairs, but are talking to each other.

"Sherlock, we need to do something! I don't think she will kill Lestrade, but what if she takes him to Moriarty?" Watson whispers.

"John, there's nothing we can do at the moment, but as soon as we're free, I'll talk to Mycroft, so-" Holmes answers but I cut him off.

"You do know that I can hear you?" I ask in a curious voice and smirk when they jump, "Who's Mycroft, by the way?"

Holmes frowns, but answers anyway. "My brother. I think your father knows him. You will meet him soon enough because I will find you, Kiara!" At the end of the sentence he is nearly shouting.

"No you won't!" I say in a sing-song voice and laugh when both of them cringe. I want to say something else, but the cabbie interrupts me and I turn the micro off again.

"We're here, Miss," he tells me and I smile at him. I throw a couple of notes in his hands and suppress a laugh when his eyes widen because of the amount of money.

"Thank you, sir, keep the change. Have a good day," I tell him and walk away. When he's far enough away, I turn the micro on again.

"So my boys, you and idiot have been incredibly well behaved. So, no, I won't turn him over to Father, but..." I shoot a tree, which sounds surprisingly similar as shooting a human.

"Good bye, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson," I say to both of them, who are sitting there in a stunned silence and start walking towards our house.

"LESTRADE!" roars Sherlock and jumps up and the despair, shock and grief is visible on both his and Watson's face.

"Moriarty! You told us you would let him go, you told us he would survive if we do what you tell us!" Watson is nearly crying and I laugh.

"I did, Dr Watson. But there is one thing you both forgot. I am my father's daughter. Oh and by the way, you can move now. See ya, boys..."

And with that I turn my phone off. I run the few yards to our doorstep and ring the bell frantically. My key is inside because the plan was that Father's chauffeur would pick me up, so I am practically begging that someone is inside. To my surprise, Father opens the door and hugs me when he sees me.

"Spitfire! Spitfire, Smiths told me what happened. When he went to pick you up he saw you were carried out of the museum by Sherlock Holmes, he called me instantly. How did you escape?" he asks and I am overwhelmed.

"Oh god, Spitfire, just come inside and tell me then." He ushers me inside and shouts for Andy and David to make something to eat and a hot chocolate. Finally I sit with him in his study drinking my hot chocolate and I tell him the whole story.

"They will pay, Spitfire, they will pay." He says and for a split-second I feel sympathy for Holmes and Watson. I don't want to be them when Father gets his revenge.


	5. I love you Spitfire, I'm sorry

In the next few months Father keeps me in the house. He won't let me outside, not even with guards because he is scared. On my birthday we go out though. He comes with me and it is one of the most amazing days of my life. I only see Holmes and Watson in the papers, getting more and more famous as Father is searching for a way to get his revenge.

Three months after my encounter with Holmes and Watson, he calls me to his study.

"Spitfire, the plan is ready. From now on, you will not see me for a bit. I will be arrested and in court, but that doesn't matter. You will be safe afterwards." He says and touches my cheek when one tear falls from my eyes.

On the next day, he breaks into the Tower, the Pentonville Prison and the Bank of London at the same time. As he said, he is arrested and I have to wait six weeks for the court case. Needless to say, I am on drugs again the whole time, light drugs and sedatives, but drugs non the less.

Father comes back after the trial. He is found not guilty, and when I ask he tells me he threatened the jury. He also wants me to get clean again and one day later, he leaves again. When I read in the papers on the day after that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud and committed suicide, I shake my head. I met him and I don't think he is a fraud – he is dead now and I am safe, but I can't help feeling a bit queasy. My only worries are where Father is.

Andy comes to me, sad, and gives me a letter.

"He told us to give it to you only if something really bad happens. We got the news today. I am sorry, Kiara, your father... He is dead. He shot himself. I – I saw his body, and made sure that he would be buried properly, I can tell you where he is." He says and I can only stare at him for a second. Andy isn't ready for my sudden attack, and I manage to get him to the floor, crying and screaming. He is lying. He must be! Why should Father shoot himself? That was ridiculous. Andy doesn't defend himself when I hit him and hit him. I don't now how much time passes or what exactly happens, but the next thing I really notice is me lying on him, crying into his already soaked through shirt while he is hugging me.

"Shush, Kiara, shush. I'm so sorry." He whispers and I nod. After I get up and pull him into the kitchen, he takes his phone out and shows me the picture of my father, lying dead on a slab, with the exit wound of the bullet on the back of his head. I don't know why, but his eyes are still open, and are staring up, up, up, into nothingness. I reach the sink only barely and vomit into it. I know that I have to believe it now, but the sight of his eyes, so hart and crazy and cruel against other people and so kind and caring when he looked at me are now lifeless and don't mean anything any more.

After a few minutes I stop retching and Andy gives me a glass of water and I nod gratefully. Then I open F – his letter.

_Spitfire._

_If you ever read this it means I am dead or dying and I am so, so sorry for that. I think they told you what happened. As I'm writing this, I know that Sherlock Holmes and I will meet. He will have committed suicide and died as a fraud because I will have snipers threatening John Watson, Martha Hudson and Gregory Lestrade._

_Believe me when I write that I don't want to leave you. I'm not planning to do so, but if it is the only way of saving you, then I will not hesitate. Spitfire, I want you to know that however way I die, it is not your fault. If I die jumping in front of a bus because it might safe your life, it is NOT your fault. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise._

_Spitfire, I left you a bank account with twenty-five-thousand pounds on it. It is under the name Kiara Josephina Johnson for the case that my plan to discredit Holmes and make James Moriarty disappear fails. There is a small safe in your room behind your wardrobe. The combination for it is the PIN you used on your first phone. I'm not writing it down here because of the fear that this letter might fall in the wrong hands._

_In that safe will be the card for the bank account, a new passport, a new birth certificate and some other documents you might need._

_Sebastian Moran will take my place. He will inherit everything except one thing. I have changed your fail-safe app. No-one will know if and when you click on it. You have access to most information, unless Sebastian changes anything, but I doubt that. You can't change anything though. Your involvement will be practically untraceable._

_Spitfire, I am scared. I know my plan to discredit Holmes is working in the moment. But if you read this, then something must have gone wrong. I don't want to leave you and I am scared of what will happen to you._

_One more thing. Even if I'm gone, don't waste away. You are my fire, my flame, and I don't want to extinguish it by dying. Do whatever you want. I won't think bad of you if you swap sides, I won't think bad of you if you join Sebastian. But I want you to be happy, that is my last request._

_I love you, Spitfire. I am sorry._

_Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal_

I didn't notice when exactly the tears start to fall, but my face, my hands and parts of the paper are wet. Andy comes and hugs me again, as I sit quietly by the window and disobey.

Everything Father said in his letter is true. I found the safe with all its contents. Father told me to be happy and don't feel guilty, but I disobey. My heart is breaking everyday again and I can't stand it. I won't go into Father's study now, and after a look in his bedroom I have to run to the toilet and vomit. Andy and David are there, but it's not the same. Father is gone and even though he wasn't here that much, and sometimes it feels like he will just walk through the door and scold me for taking so many drugs, heavy drugs, now, but he won't and although my head knows it my heart won't accept it.

I know that I'm wasting away. I see the looks in David's and Andy's eyes every time they think I can't see. They are sad about Father's death as well, but me being like this hurts them more. But I somehow like it. I like to disobey because he didn't hold his promise either. Because he isn't here to scold or punish me.

* * *

 

Now one really understands and accepts my grief. Well, there is one man who would if he knew what I am going through. That I am going through this phase of grief as well. John Watson. I see him on the papers or the news quite often, he's limping and using that cane again. He is thinner than the one I remember and looks a lot older as well. The thought that I could defeat him easily now crosses my mind, until I realise that I am in no shape for that, I am as bad as he is. He is being accused and bullied and insulted by the press but he stands his ground: Jim Moriarty was real and so was Sherlock. I admire him for that.

Somehow that one thought pulls me out of my trance. I see myself clearly now: a drug-addict. No one important any more, not Kiara Moriarty, not Spitfire. Just someone. It hurts, but I know I needed that realisation.

Andy and David are overjoyed. The first time we train they think I am still as good as I was and we use the taser-knifes. We throw them in a dark corner after that. My strength and stamina is gone and I need a few months to get back to my old status.

In that time I learn how Sebastian Moran commands Father's empire. I don't like it. He seems to think he is better than Father and doesn't hesitate to say that out loud. The carefully designed web father had put so much effort in nearly breaks. All the fine threads are gone after a month because Moran couldn't control them, and the bigger threads are wavering.

* * *

 

Nine months after Father's death I decide to do something. I cut myself loose from Moran and run away. I try to do this twice, the first time I confide in David and Andy, and although I trust them completely and they would never betray me, they hold me back. They say it is too dangerous and not what my father wanted. But the second time I succeed. With my fail-safe app I look into the database, and also in 221B. Watson is there. But it doesn't look the same. Dust is nearly everywhere, and he doesn't seem to care. He is still mourning, mourning for Holmes. I figure that the only reason why I'm not in the same state is that I know the reason why Father is dead. Watson just knows Holmes committed suicide but doesn't know why.

When I look into Holmes bedroom, I frown. It is worse here. If it weren't for the dust, I might have thought Holmes left only moments ago. There is one jacket on a chair and even though the bed is made, there are slight creases on it. The wardrobe door is slightly open. Yes. John Watson is still mourning. And he won't stop for a long time. I don't know why it makes me feel queasy, but it does.

* * *

 

One week later I am in Paris. I rent out a little flat there under the name of my bank account, but I can't stay indoor this night. The small club I saw when I walked through the streets to find the flat is still open, so I dress up a bit and go. On the fake passport I am already nineteen, but nobody asks about my age and I enter.

The night is loud, I am tipsy and I enjoy it all. The next day I go there again. When I leave this time, I see someone, someone familiar. I know I saw him yesterday as well, but I can't believe it's him. The night ends and I leave without talking to him.


	6. John Harrison

The next night I am prepared. I kept the little handgun I stole from Holmes a bit over a year ago and I hide it in my dress. The man I saw is dancing with a woman I don't know, but I have time. I order a drink and wait.

After some time, the woman kisses him on the cheek and leaves. This is my chance and I know it. I am behind him, so I walk up to him and ask him for a dance with a deeper voice than usual. The moment he turns around I am already incredibly close to him and press the gun against his stomach. His eyes widen for a moment, but there's nothing he can do, the gun is hidden between us, his jacket and my dress block the view.

"I heard somewhere you were dead, Mr Holmes," I say quietly with my normal voice so that the others won't notice. I put my free hand onto his neck and he stiffens even more. I can feel his cool breath against my face while he is looking around, searching for an opportunity. His head is practically smoking.

"Why don't you come with me, I think we have some catching up to do," I whisper and lead him with the gun on his abdomen and my hand on his neck to the edge of the dancing area. From there we go through the 'Staff Only' door and into a dark alley.

"Miss Moriarty. I thought you were in London?" he asks politely and I smile.

"My name is Kiara Josephina Johnson for now... And, as you can see, I am not." I answer him and he smirks.

"Well, my name is John Harrison, Miss Johnson..." He whispers. I know since our first meeting that he is quick. But I think he is even quicker now. He uses his left hand to push the gun up and the right to push me away. He isn't quick enough though, as I pull the trigger and the bullet goes straight through his left arm while he's turning slightly. He gasps and curses, but I am close again. While I press the gun against his back and stretch up and whisper in his ear, "Not really a good move, Mr Harrison," but he just curses slightly and presses with the palm of his right hand against the wound.

"Come on, Mr Harrison, my flat is two minutes away," I scold. For the rest of the way he does what I tell him to do.

* * *

 

Once inside I lock the door and tell him to sit at the kitchen table. My second gun is still on there. I flick the security back on my gun and put it into the waistband of my dress, after I got the first aid kit.

"Put both your arms on the table," I say and surprisingly he does what he is told. I use disinfectant and then stitch the wound up. It is nothing serious, barely more than a graze, but I am sure it hurts. When I duck down to cut the thread, I suddenly feel cold metal at the back of my head.

"I can only repeat myself," I say and chuckle, " Not really a good move, Mr Holmes." I push against my second gun gun which he holds and stand up.

"That gun doesn't even have bullets," I explain and ignore his confused face, "Do you really think I'd be stupid enough to leave it on the table otherwise? No, I simply had it done with a bit more metal to compensate. I wouldn't have thought you'd fall for it, though..." I smirk at his glare.

A few minutes later we both sit at the kitchen table with a drink. Holmes looks different now. The basics like face and height are the same, but he looks tired. He has a beard and his hair is longer. His clothes are different, instead of a fine suit and a button down he is wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. His expensive watch isn't on his wrist, instead he is wearing three leather bracelets with little wooden pearls on each arm. I decide that I would have liked this look, if it weren't for everything else. He is thinner than I remember him and his eyes have lost the sparkle. He misses Watson, I'm sure, and that's one of the things I want to talk about.

"Mr Holmes, why aren't you in London? Why do you keep everyone in the dark?" I ask him and he frowns.

"Miss Moriarty, you probably know what your father did. He threatened my friends and if I didn't jump off the roof of St Barts, his snipers would have shot them. To leave me no escape, he shot himself. It was our last meeting, I decided at which place we would meet. With the help of a pathologist at Barts I managed to fake my death... I've been hunting your father's minions ever since." He says quietly.

I can only nod. Tears are threatening to fall, but I don't want to cry in front of Holmes. So that's how and why Father died. To protect me, indeed, and he had paid the final price for it. Then Holmes words sink in.

"That was you? All the threads of Father's web that Moran couldn't hold?" Holmes only nods, so I continue. "Mr Holmes, I want to make a deal with you. I have access to information you don't even dream of. I can tell you about Moran. I can also tell you about your friend, Dr Watson. However... I want Moran killed. He is slandering Father's name. Secondly, I don't mind if we clear your name or anything, or if Jim Moriarty is real again, but don't let anyone slander his name any more. I also want a fair share of the money that Moran has right now. Do you agree?"

He cocks his head to the side and looks at me.

"Are you willing to help me destroy your father's web, clear my name after your father did so much to destroy my reputation and slander your father's name?" He is curious, really curious.

"Yes and no. I will help you to do what you said, but I am not slandering Father's name. He was famous and important as Jim Moriarty, and I don't mind if he gets called consulting criminal or not, because that's what he was, but I want to make sure that everyone knows he did it all for a good reason. The wreaking of your reputation and making you commit suicide for example was revenge for what you did to me and to protect me." I can only whisper the last part, but hold out my hand for him to shake.

He cocks his head again and narrows his eyes, still curious. I smile when I see him like this, he looks almost like he did when I met him first, but still so different. He considers my offer, but I can see how hard it is when he looks quickly over his left shoulder. It puzzles me at first, but then it is obvious. He is turning around to talk to Watson, but sees that he isn't there. My deduction from a year ago was right, he cares a lot for him. He must miss him a lot.

"I could also tell Moran where you are." My voice is as bored as I manage. He pales slightly and answers quickly.

"No! No, you mustn't, he'd kill John..." he whispers.

"What do I care?" I drawl, but I am bluffing. If I tell Moran, then he will find me and he would kill my only chance of destroying Moran.

Holmes doesn't see it. He swallows, and I know he will accept. And I know that the papers were right. Holmes does love Watson. Not how they think, not romantically, but in a platonic way. He loves Watson in brotherly way, Watson is his best friend, after all. Though I correct myself quickly. I met them, even though maybe not in the best way, but still. How they interacted, how they talked. If I had to define them, I'd say soul-mates. Definitely soul-mates.

"Okay, Miss Moriarty. You have a deal. Just... Just don't risk John." Holmes stutters a bit in the end, and I can see that he is scared. Good.

"For a genius like you, I seem to have to repeat myself awfully often, Mr Holmes. My name is Kiara." My lips form a smirk when I see his glare.

I don't know why I say this. He was the nemesis of Father, after all. But I have always been drawn to geniuses. Father, and now Sherlock Holmes. I'm not sure I like him, but I don't hate him like I used to. Maybe it's because I have come to peace with Father's death. I'm still sad and grieving, I am, but I know that he did it to protect me. And what I'm doing right now is something he would have wanted. Revenge. Revenge on Sebastian Moran.

"Very well, Kiara. Mine is Sherlock." He answers and shakes my hand.

"Sherlock. I'd never have thought I'd ever call you that." I say thoughtfully and Sherlock's lips twitch.

"Neither did I."

"So it was you, then?" I ask him suddenly. We are still sitting at the kitchen table, both with a cup of coffee. I offered him tea, but he didn't want any. He told me it was because of Watson. He always made tea. Sherlock looks up and frowns.

"What was me?" he asks and I have the sudden urge to giggle.

"Father's web. I thought it was because of Moran's incompetence, when all the small threads fell and some of the bigger ones started to."

"In a way. The smaller ones fell mostly by themselves because, let's face it, Moran is an idiot. I might hate your father, but at least he was intelligent. Anyway, the wavering was my work. I haven't been very successful, though..." Sherlock muses.

"Moran was furious when he noticed, I think that was a success." I say and to my surprise he smiles slightly. It is a real smile, not his smirk or a fake one, and it reveals that he isn't as far away as one might think. I giggle and soon I can hear a deep chuckle. It takes minutes to calm again.

"Sherlock, when I said I have information, I didn't lie. I also... well, I am able to look into 221B. Your friend still lives there, you know. I... You can look at him, if you want." I say, unsure whether it was the right thing.

Sherlock stares at me, then swallows.

"Can I... I mean, can I look at him? Please?" his voice breaks at the end, and once again I can see how much he misses Watson.

I don't answer, just pull my phone out and click through it all till I can see Watson.

"Here," I say and nearly give it to Sherlock, when I see Watson standing up.

"Who is there?" Watson asks, and I realise that my micro is on.

"Oh, shit." I whisper and quickly turn it off. Luckily Sherlock didn't say anything, otherwise it would have gone really bad.

"Who is there?" Watson asks again and looks around. Both Sherlock and me are shocked by the sight of his face when he looks into the camera for a moment while he is searching for the intruder. He looks older. There are more lines on his face, and his eyes are red and have lost their sparkle. He leans heavily on his cane, his left hand shaking slightly. The army-doctor is very pale and looks extremely tired. It hurts me to see him like that, but that is no comparison to Sherlock. Sherlock's mouth is a thin line, he blinks quickly and clears his throat.

"At least he's alive," he whispers so quietly that I nearly don't hear it.

"Yes, Sherlock, and he will stay that way. But Moran isn't waiting." Guilt and self-hate curse through me as I stop Sherlock from seeing the man he loves. It is hard, but I know that I did right when Sherlock nods and clears his throat again.

"Okay. Explain," He orders and I don't ask how he knows what exactly I was going to do. Taking my phone with me, I stand up and come back with a piece of paper and a pencil.

"Listen, I don't really know how exactly this is built, I just know the basics. Anyway, in the court you described Father's crime organisation fairly well. It is like a web." In the middle of the paper I write Father's name and put a circle around it.

"He's the spider. For Father all his clients were like prey. They would be the caught flies and moths, connected to each others by threads. The spider, Father, had helpers. Men and women he trusted up to a certain degree. He had five of them, and now that he's dead, Moran probably has got a new one. Anyway, those five are the big threads." I draw them on the paper and it starts to look like a mind-map.

"Then there are the medium threads, the ones you already have touched. The flies and moths are big things, like terror-cells, etc. Irene Adler was one of them." It feels weird talking about Irene like this. Then I notice that the last time I saw was the morning of that one fateful job.

"These flies or moths are always connected to two of the big threads. Father could advise them through two people, but the other three wouldn't be able to tell anything to anyone because they simply didn't know. These connections between two of the big threads or the medium threads. And then there are the small threads. Father had almost nothing to do with them. They were the small, boring things. Crimes of passion or similar, most of the times not even organised by Father, but the big threads. He used to do them for the money, the fun and the image. He got the orders for a small crime and gave them to the big threads. It was extra work for them, as soon as he didn't give them to them any more, the small threads fell." I connect the big threads to each other so it looks like a big spider's web. "To destroy the web we can go two ways. Plan 1: We kill Moran and in the hopefully following confusion, all the big threads and theirs second in commands. Plan 2: We kill the threads and the seconds first, and afterwards Moran. I'd go for plan two. We don't know whether there'll be any confusion, and Moran doesn't have that may people he trusts. If we are quick, we should be able to take them out quicker than he can get any new ones."

I look into his eyes and he nods.

"We'll need to be really quick, though, Kiara. I don't think it will be easy, even if I hack into Mycroft's computer."

"Who's Mycroft?" I interrupt him, and he smirks.

"My brother. He is the British government, and has access to all kinds of data, so-"

"The Iceman. Now I know. Father always called him that, I just didn't think he was your brother... Does he know you're alive?" I interrupt again, but this time Sherlock glares.

"No, he doesn't, and he won't. He'd be a complete pain, it's much easier without him knowing." He sounds bored and annoyed, but I don't stop.

"Yes he will. With him we will have easy access to all kinds of all kind of classified information, and we won't be on the run any more. Our deal is off if he doesn't know," I threaten Sherlock, but he just laughs.

"What do I care?" He asks in a smug voice.

"You care, because I have access to nearly all files on Father's computer. You care, because I have access to all the surveillance. You care, because I know Moran and two of the threads. You care because of Dr Watson. Do you really want to do this alone? You won't be able to. You don't know what to look for, who to threaten, who to bribe, how to do this. But I do, and does Mycroft as well. So?"

His eyes have gone wide during my little speech. He underestimated me and my information, and I hope he doesn't any more.

Sherlock nods, and I know he agrees to my plan and to tell Mycroft. The rest of the night goes smoothly without another row.


	7. The Holmes Manor

Telling Mycroft was fun, I remember when I sit in the chair Mycroft's assistant gave me. Sherlock and Mycroft are making something like my fail-safe app for Sherlock's phone, but only with some information of Mycroft's computer.

Sherlock had told me where Mycroft would be. With my little handgun I had stopped him when he came out of the toilet, and asked him whether 'dear Myco wanted to go on a walk with me'. I hadn't left him much choice and he had been confused because of the Myco-comment, so he had come quietly. I had led him to the small hotel-room Sherlock and I had rented out for the week, and after I had locked the door I said Sherlock's name loudly, much to Mycroft's confusion. Just before he had asked me though, Sherlock had come into the room and greeted his brother. Mycroft had sat down quickly and asked for an explanation, but had laughed afterwards and told us to come to his office with him, where we are now.

The first two persons we want to attack are a big thread called Jennifer Stone and her deputy James Smith. I have met them both, they are dangerous, intelligent individuals, and I hope neither Sherlock nor Mycroft make the mistake of underestimating them.

Sherlock and Mycroft plan it all. Thanks to my app we know pretty well where Stone and Smith are going to be, but we always have a backup plan. We can't risk failing once and then waiting for too long.

Anthea is annoyed with me. I am teasing her the whole time, telling her jokes and funny anecdotes which she can't help but laugh about. She thinks I am immature and childish, but she's allowed to do so. I stole her phone at least three times, after all. The hazelnut-coffee I asked her for is put on the little table next to my chair and when I look up I see Anthea and her phone. Weird, she is. I am slightly jealous of her ability to walk in high heels without stumbling, let alone texting the whole time. Or whatever she is doing.

I sigh loudly for like the fifth time and look around. Mycroft and Sherlock wanted me to plan with them, but I declined. I can't be bothered with it, I am far too impatient. I will rely on Sherlock when the time comes.

Sherlock and I have a weird relationship. We aren't friends. We aren't enemies. I wouldn't say that I don't trust him, I'd just say that I am careful. The night in Paris was two weeks ago. Sherlock has got to known me better, but I am still as clueless about him as I was before. He lived in another flat for the time, but that's going to change. Mycroft says that we need to know each other better, and I agree. We are going to live in the family home of the Holmes, and Sherlock is annoyed about that. I am curious. I have no idea about his background, and I want to know.

The car we are sitting in is beautiful. Black, shiny, big. Black leather seats, tinted windows. I only know we are going to the Holmes Manor, but I can't see anything. After twenty minutes the car slows down and Sherlock, who is sitting next to me, sighs.

"What's up, genius?" I tease, and he frowns.

"Kiara, I-"

"Relax, it was a joke... So, really, what's up?" I ask.

"This is where I grew up. It is... different to what you might expect and also not a very nice place for me."

For the next five minutes he is quiet.

When the car stops, my door is opened by one of the drivers, as well as Sherlock's. I look at him, but he just gets out. I follow and stare in amazement when I see the house. Or rather, really the manor. It is huge. Victorian. Impressive.

The sandstone makes a beautiful contrast to the surprisingly blue sky, the big windows mirror everything around us.

Sherlock leads me to the door and knocks. I giggle when a man in a plain black suit opens. He is about sixty, with a strict, but kind face and grey hair. This is so old-school. Big house, butler, house-maids?

"Master Sherlock. Master Mycroft already told me you'd be coming with your companion, he'll be here for dinner." He greets us and takes our coats.

"Thomas, this is Kiara Moriarty. Please refer to her, if you give any information to anybody, as Johnson, for her protection. My old rooms?" Sherlock is completely at ease in his role. It makes me wonder. He told me he didn't like it here, but he seems to know Thomas well and like him. His parents were the problem then. Sadly they often are, and I am happy that Father wasn't.

The butler nods and Sherlock walks towards a big staircase. I just follow him and look at everything, while he seems to be very sure of where he's going and not bothering to look at the paintings.

Finally we reach two doors. They are dark and wooden, and very heavy. Sherlock opens the first and goes inside. The room behind is strange. It is Victorian, with a big four-poster-bed, rugs everywhere, dark wood – but also modern. There is a massive TV-screen on the wall opposite the bed, a DVD and CD collection beneath it, various gaming equipment like Wi, Playstation and xBox with games and controllers and a laptop on the desk.

"This is your room," Sherlock tells me, "Mine is next door. Be downstairs at seven."

I just stare after him. Well, that was rude. I frown and shake my head, but can't stay angry. This room is amazing. I go through a door at the other side of the room and see the bathroom. As everything here, it is big. Bathing tube, shower, toilet, two sinks, and a whole lot of products. Strange. Even my favourite shampoo and make-up is here.

I wash my face and brush my hair, and then look into the mirror. It's the first time I really see myself without make-up in a good, big mirror. I look different to what I remember. My face isn't as round as before and I look older. My skin is still as pale as it used to be, but I have some freckles on my nose. My lips are fuller and my eyes are slightly bigger and have a different shape. It's nearly invisible, but there.

I look older, a bit sad and if I had seen too much for my age. I had, definitely. My hair is a mess. Although it is brushed, it isn't very healthy. Probably because of the last ten months.

With a sigh I exit the bathroom and my room, and knock on Sherlock's door.

"Come in!" he calls and I enter.

The room looks the same as mine, but there is one more door. I guess it is where he used to sleep, as he said to Thomas that we'd stay where he lived, but I don't dare ask or look. He doesn't look up when I come in, and neither when I sit next to him on his bed. It's strange. He is in his Pjs, something I have never seen on him before. He isn't doing anything, not on his phone, not on his laptop, nothing.

"What are you doing?" I ask him, when he doesn't do anything else to acknowledge my presence.

"Thinking."

"What about?"

"John."

It is unusual that he is so open and so not rude, that I am a bit taken aback. I had expected him to brush it off or ignore the question, but he doesn't.

"We'll find Moran. And then you can go home."

I don't say that I don't know what I am going to do, whether I'll go to follow Father's footsteps or live alone or kill myself, as I had planned before I met Sherlock in Paris, but I think he heard it anyway, even though he doesn't comment on it.

"Yes, but how long will it take? My mind-palace is the perfect storage room, I'm used to noticing and remembering every single little detail. And now I go into John's room, and I find the image of him, the one you showed me. It's driving me mad, I can't delete it, how can you people live with this?"

I hold him after his rant, and to my surprise, he only stiffens slightly, but doesn't pull away.

"I don't know, Sherlock. I don't know..."

He chuckles quietly and we sit in peace.


	8. Food

Dinner is served nearly two hours later, and I can only stare. Even though we are only three people, Mycroft, Sherlock and me, there is a cold buffet as well as a warm one. The tables are full with all kinds of cheese, strong, mild, in at least five different colours, all kinds of meat are on plates, salami, ham, pâté, chicken breast cut in thin slices, grapes make a strange contrast with their green plumpness, shining slightly in the light. On the next table there are are little plates with dips, sauces, cream cheese and cut vegetable as well as some crackers. In the basket there are different kinds of bread, white, brown, really dark ones, toast, freshly baked bread, bagels, smelling deliciously.

In the bowls and little pots and pans are soups, a mild sauce and some meat, as well as vegetables and herbs, put together beautifully. Mushrooms and beans and broccoli and potatoes make my mouth water, and while Mycroft and Sherlock are just sitting down, I am still looking around, until Mycroft calls me.

"Miss Moriarty, sit down, will you, please?"

I blush slightly and sit down, and am surprised when the butler, Thomas, comes to the table with a tray with cups, saucers, tea, milk, sugar, hot-chocolate and coffee.

Twenty minutes later I lean back, enjoying the last bites of my dinner. Even though I had wanted to only small portions and had cheated sometimes, I still managed to try everything and feel comfortably full now. Sherlock has stopped eating ten minutes ago, to my surprise he actually ate something, and we are both smirking about the huge amount of food that is still on Mycroft's plate.

Nearly an hour later we are sitting in Mycroft's study. It is a nice room, big, but not overly so, and classic. We are all looking at the big, flat computer screen, where Mycroft has pictures of potential suspects, people, who could know where Jennifer Stone and her deputy James Smith are.

I have never seen any of them before, and that sets us back a lot. I am the only real connection Mycroft and Sherlock have to the threads because I am the only one who has or had contacts or memories with them.

After ten more minutes I go to bed.

My phone wakes me in the morning. It's still dark outside, so I just touch the screen until the ringing stops because I just can't be bothered to get up.

The next time I wake up is because of Sherlock. The sudden cold when he pulls the blanket away makes me jump, and instinctively I hit him. Only barely he blocks it, but it obviously still hurts and he knocks my phone down in the process.

"Sherlock, what the hell!"

My heart is beating incredibly fast, I could have killed him! He looks surprised and slightly shocked, I don't think he expected me to react like that. But he forgot that I am the daughter of Jim Moriarty, the consulting criminal. I was trained my whole life, that were instincts.

"My god, Kiara!" He tries to hide it, but his voice sounds shaky.

"Sherlock, you can't just wake me up like that!" I am breathing heavily and lean down to pick my phone up. I quickly look at the screen to check whether it's all right and not broken, when I see what's on it.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, look!" I breathe and I can't help smiling. When my phone woke me up before, I had, to turn it off, touched the screen. I must have touched the fail-safe app, because that was exactly where I was.

And right at the top was a button called 'Network'.


	9. The Network

Both Sherlock and Mycroft are standing behind me, I'm sitting in Mycroft's chair in his office. Sherlock had been the first to try and take the phone away from me, but I had demanded that I would be the one with the phone. Eventually, both Holmes brothers had agreed. And I wanted to sit in Mycroft's chair ever since I first saw it.

In the folder called Network is a huge amount of other apps, folders, documents, pictures, videos and maps. I go through all of them, through every folder because we can't risk not looking at something. It takes hours, but the two shadows behind me stay. Around lunchtime my eyes are burning, I'm tired and I'm hungry. To my surprise it's not only Sherlock who protests, but also Mycroft.

"Kiara, we can't stop! We still need to look through a quarter of the content, it would only take a few hours..." Sherlock's voice is pleading, but by now I know him well enough to know that it's fake. I can understand him, he wants to find and destroy the threads, but we do have the twenty minutes I need for lunch.

"Exactly. Mycroft, I'm astonished that you can resist the lure of the food, are you on a diet?" Mycroft frowns and Sherlock smirks, so I continue. "If either of you tries to look through it without me, I'll be really cross, so you better don't even try. I know, I'll take it with me. And you, Sherlock, are going to eat something."

The atmosphere in the dining room is kind of tense. Sherlock is annoyed, I told him that he needed to eat and apparently the contents of my phone were enough incentive. Both him, and to my surprise, Mycroft, aren't really enjoying the meal, I can see, they are waiting for me to finish. I don't really mind. Today the kitchen has made an enormous amount of food, and as neither of us has eaten anything for breakfast, I have decided to honour this meal correctly.

The buffet is mostly cold. There are three different soups, tomato, potato and a chicken-and-leek soup. They are the only hot things.

Then there are, again, many different kinds of bread, fluffy white or brown bread, in thick or thin slices, normal, but obviously very expensive toast, French baguette, strange, nearly black German bread which actually tastes slightly of syrup and is amazing, and many more, which I haven't tried so far. Salted and normal butter are next to the margarine, then there are all kinds of marmalade and jam and at least five different kinds of honey. The chocolate spread isn't far away either.

On the next table there are vegetables and fruit, the usual stuff, but also things I have never seen before. The meat plate is huge, as is the cheese one, and the fish plate is only slightly smaller.

Finally I eat the last bite and ask one of the staff for an espresso. I usually don't like them, but I hope that the caffeine will keep me awake.

After exactly twenty minutes we are in Mycroft's study again. After three more hours, we're through it all. I groan and exit the Fail-safe app. Sherlock is already on one of the other chairs in his thinking pose and Mycroft is yawing. As I'm stretching, Sherlock, surprisingly, speaks.

"Don't relax yet, Kiara, we have only seen the rough outlines of it all, not every fine detail-"

"I don't care, this is enough for the day. We know where the information about Stone and Smith is, so either, you do the planning now and we discuss it tomorrow, or we do the plan together tomorrow, but I am going to my room and relax. You might be two complete machines, but that doesn't mean everybody is."

My dramatic exit is destroyed by me stumbling because of the exhaustion, and the shocked silence is broken by Sherlock's chuckle.

"DIE, you idiot!"

I don't notice Sherlock coming in as I'm currently killing a guard in Assassin's Creed. It's actually pretty good. Since I do actually know how to kill people with knifes it's sometimes a bit ridiculous, but it is, most of the time, pretty relaxing.

"Erm – Kiara?" Sherlock's voice pulls me out of Florence in the Renaissance, so I pause and look up to him.

"Sherlock, I didn't hear you coming in... What's up?"

He still looks a bit shocked because of what I said when he came in so I smile.

"Don't worry, I was just killing this guard. I think I actually want one of these hidden blades, they are so cool – But really, what's up?"

"I heard you verbally abusing the TV, I was wondering why. And..." His voice quietens at the end, and from the way he looks down and not at me a understand what he wants.

Wordlessly I pull my phone out and click through the buttons until I reach the surveillance of 221B.


	10. Smith And Stone

The Darkness isn't all surrounding. There is some light, grey in black, exactly like my clothes. Grey with black. I don't know how long Sherlock and I are waiting, but suddenly the moon appears. The big white circle is complete, and for a moment I look up in amazement. Then the rational part of my brain kicks in and I pull Sherlock back in the shadows. As beautiful as the moon might be, it's silver light would betray us to everyone looking, even my special clothes wouldn't be of much use. Sherlock hadn't agreed that the clothes were better than just black, so he was wearing a suit with a black shirt.

"Sherlock, what's the plan now?" My voice was barely a whisper, barely audible. Of course I knew the plan, but not the fine details because I just hadn't listened.

"We go along here. There are two entrances, well, one door and a window at the right height. We'll go through the door. They shouldn't be here for another two hours, we'll wait inside for them." At my doubting look he rolls his eyes.

"Mycroft has checked the surveillance twice, they really aren't here. I'll go first, you have the gun?"  
I hold up his little handgun and he grins, then turns around and walks towards the door. Despite his confident words, he is careful, quiet and stealthy. The lock isn't really a hindrance for him, I watch fascinated as he twiddles with the hairpin. Only seconds later, we are in.

The house we are in is dark and not very inviting. Bleak, boxes standing around, paper over the windows. I'm two meters behind Sherlock. Watching his back. Looking around. Searching. Because there is something strange here. I can't say what it is, but whatever it is, even though Sherlock might not be consciously noting it, he is tense, frowning, unconsciously.

"We didn't expect you here, Mr Holmes. Last we heard, you were supposed to be dead."  
The cold voice is unexpected. Smug, cold, dark, merciless. I don't hear my name, so I do the only possible thing. I slink back into the shadows of a room that we just passed, praying that Jennifer Stone, the owner of the voice, didn't notice me.

Sherlock freezes. His guard was down for one second, as was his gun, and this is the punishment. Slowly he turns around and looks at the thread who is standing in a lit doorway. The light blinds him for a second, so he only reacts when he hears the safety click. Deliberately the detective raises his hands in the air, clicks the safety on his own gun and carefully walks towards the woman. He doesn't try to flee, even though, to my practised eye, the slight shaking of his hands is clearly visible. Because there is more to consider. More on the stake than just his own life. There is John. John, who will be killed because Sherlock didn't die that fateful day in June.

I can only watch as Stone hits him with the gun and his body falls limp to the ground.

An hour later I am finally out of the house. I know there is no chance of freeing Sherlock from the inside, so I need another way, but I don't dare to move to quickly. Every sound could kill both Sherlock and me.

The moon is hidden behind clouds again, so I can barely see my own hand in front of me. I jump when I suddenly hear a scream. Sherlock's dark baritone is strained, and the sound stops just as suddenly as it started. I cringe and try not to imagine what happened.

The shouting from inside the house becomes audible, and then Sherlock screams again. This time he doesn't stop. My fingers are shaking as I fumble for my phone. Only because of speed-dial it is possible for me to call Mycroft. He picks up after the second ring, annoyed.

"Kiara? What's going on?"

"Sherlock. They have Sherlock." My voice is shaking, but I manage to calm my heartbeat until I'm not hyperventilating any more.

"I'll try to get him out. But you need to come as well, now!"

"Obviously." With that, the phone clicks, and I am left alone once more.

The moon came out a bit, giving just enough light to look for entrances, when I hear the shouting once more. Sherlock stopped screaming a few minutes ago, but now I fear for him again. Strange, when I think about it, that my view has changed so dramatically, from Sherlock being Father's nemesis and now him being a friend. I could say best friend; I don't have any other ones.

Sherlock's voice comes to my mind in the moment I see the window. "There are two entrances, well, one door and a window at the right height." Maybe this is it. Surprisingly it is open and I climb in as quietly as possible.

Sherlock starts screaming again and leads me directly to the room he is in. The door is barely open, just a crack, so I am hidden as I look inside.

Sherlock is sitting in a metal chair facing my way, wrists cuffed to the armrests. They took his jacket off him and his shirt, but left him his trousers and shoes. On his bare chest there are little two little plasters with black wires coming from them, leading to somewhere behind Sherlock. He doesn't see me though, as his head is thrown back. The pain is visible in his face and his agonized screams cut through me, but I can only help him if I concentrate.

Smith and Stone are standing between Sherlock and me, looking towards me, so they can't see me. The lamp in the room is on the side, the clearly visible shadows show that neither of them are carrying a gun, but in Stone's hands there seems to be a remote. Now I understand why Sherlock is screaming, electricity.

My only chance is to be quick, really quick. I don't know how high the voltage can be, so I decide to take Stone out first. Smith is the one shouting at Sherlock, but he doesn't seem to be doing anything else, so he'll be second.

I burst into the room; with a high kick to head Stone drops to the floor. Sherlock's still screaming, the electricity is still cursing through him, but now Smith is trying to attack me. I lift the gun and don't hesitate. The bullet goes straight through his fore-head and he crumbles to the ground.

Now I have time for Sherlock. The remote is still in Stone's hands and when I crouch down to turn the electricity off, she grabs my neck with both hands. The sudden pull makes me lose my balance and she pulls me down, rolling so she is on top of me. With one hand she pushes my hand with the gun down, putting her knee on the pressure-point just as Watson did more than a year ago. Automatically my hand opens and she takes the gun and throws it not far away, so she could reach it, but not me.

Quickly she secures my other hand the same way, and even though I do struggle, I can't throw her off, just as I hadn't been able to with Watson.

"You're Moriarty's girl, aren't you? Never would have thought you'd be on the side of Holmes, but I guess, things can change, don't they?" I narrow my eyes at her and try to throw her off again, but suddenly I can feel cold metal at my throat. The knife is long, thin and very sharp, and without doubt she won't hesitate to use it. I stiffen and lie still, glaring at her but I don't dare to do anything else.

Then we hear something unexpected. A car. Driving towards the house, obviously trying to be silent but not succeeding at all. I groan. Of course, Mycroft wouldn't only ruin his rescue by being loud, he'd also be in great danger.

Stone smirks.

"So the brother knows about Holmes being alive as well. Let's wait for him, shall we?" She leans forward slightly and horrible pain shoots through my arms, but there is nothing I can do about it, so I don't even make a sound. Not that it would help Mycroft and his men to find us. Sherlock's still screaming, that is enough.

Not even a minute later the door bangs open and there are armed man and Mycroft behind them. I can practically see Mycroft's eyes widening, as Sherlock is there in the chair, not even noticing any of us, and me lying on the floor, being threatened by Stone. Only slightly awkward.

"Stone, let them go now. You can't escape, this place is surrounded." Mycroft's voice is smooth and confident, but Stone just laughs.

"You want information from me, obviously. The guns are just a ruse, you can't afford to shoot me. So put them down, on the floor." Her voice is cold and harsh. "If you don't - " The weight on my wrists gets bigger and I cry out in pain, then Stone has the remote in her hand. " - I will kill Moriarty and your brother."

Suddenly, Sherlock stops screaming. Stone must have turned the electricity off, even though I have no idea why.

The detective's eyes move around, taking in the situation, Mycroft, his men, me.

"Kiara?" His voice is rough and very quiet.

I don't answer. After a second, Stone turns the electricity back on, glaring at Mycroft.

"For every second that your men disobey my orders, I am going to turn the voltage up. Hurry up, you only have ten seconds." Sherlock tries not to make a sound but after a few seconds, he fails.

"For god's sake, Mycroft!" I shout, not really caring what Stone thinks about it. "Tell them to drop the guns, you cold-hearted bastard!"

This seems to pull Mycroft out of his reverie because I can hear the guns clattering down. Instantly, Sherlock stops screaming again, only panting loudly.

"So, I want you all to-" Stone is speaking, and I have made my decision. Sherlock's and my only chance of coming out of here alive is now, and if I die, it doesn't matter, because I tried.

I push up again and manage to throw the surprised and distracted woman off me. Slightly stunned, she isn't quick enough to press the button on the remote, so I pull it out of her hands, along with the knife. Then the pommel of the knife gets acquainted with Stone's temple and this time, she really is out cold. Within seconds I am next to Sherlock, pulling the electrodes off his chest and then picking the cuffs with my hairpin.

Sherlock is relatively okay. But it seems that I underestimated what he went through.

"Kiara," he says and when I don't answer instantly, he repeats it.

"Kiara, are you all right?" I am very confused. He is the one who was tortured, why is he asking me?

Sherlock, Mycroft and me are walking towards Mycroft's car. Sherlock was okay in the end, he had just been quite confused because he hadn't noticed what had been going on. Otherwise he wasn't hurt at all. I, on the other hand, was hurt. Stone must have caught me with her knife just below my eye without me noticing when I had pushed her off, which was the reason for Sherlock's worrying.

"Where is she going now?" My voice cuts through the surprisingly friendly silence, and after a few seconds Mycroft answers.

"We'll be questioning her in a safe-house. About other threads and information about your father's web."

He has only barely finished his answer when I step on a stone. It isn't a big stone, but my exhaustion and slight blood-loss make me slower. And as I'm falling to the ground, warm darkness surrounds me.


	11. Rest

"I don't know, Sherlock. Happy now? I don't know how they could be in the house, I can give you the security videos if you want," Mycroft's voice is one of the first things I can hear. Sherlock is there as well.

"You told me, you promised me. This is your fault, all of it!" he sounds as angry as Mycroft sounds annoyed and so I decide to cut in.

"Hnnnng,"

Well, maybe not as graceful or beautiful as I wanted, but it does it's job. They shut up instantly and when I open my eyes, I see them standing at the foot of my bed. Which is also my bed in Mycroft's house, in my room, which is, now that I think about it, surprisingly tidy.

Sherlock comes to my side quickly and looks down at me.

"Kiara, are you okay? How are you feeling?" He tries to sound calm, but there is a tiny hint of worry.

"WHO tidied my room?"

Sherlock and Mycroft look at each other and then at me, confused.

"Please don't tell me that one of you did it because it would be just too weird and besides, ewww."

Again, the look at me, even more confused.

"You are thirty-six and I don't even want to know years old – you going through my clothes, especially my underwear? Which WAS lying around, sorry about that. Anyway, that would really be ewww."

They are still confused as a huge fit of laughter gets me and I can feel tears running down my cheeks.

Two days later I am up and about as usual. I decide to introduce Sherlock to Assassin's Creed and after a slight tantrum it is "just a rubbish, unrealistic piece of idiocy" as he says it, he seems to like it somehow. We play both single-player (we make a new one, beside the one I have) and multi-player (I win, although he is getting better horribly quick).

Mycroft is in his study most of the times and we only see him at the meals, and three days after the incident which we know call 'Smith and Stone' he makes an announcement even Sherlock listens to.

"Evidence has been raised, as you might know, under the name of an organisation called IBIS. You might have seen it. Yellow spray can, writing 'IBIS', 'I believe', 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' or 'Moriarty was real' on walls, boards, everywhere."

Sherlock and I nod. We have seen it, not that often, but I know how much it must mean to him and Watson.

"We will be able to rehabilitate you very soon, Sherlock. It will put a stop in your active search, but it will make things a lot easier. I'm leaving you the choice, you can either do it now or later."

It is clear from his tone and how he speaks that he wants to get it over with, that he wants to rehabilitate his little brother, and I have the inkling that it is also because of the images.

"I – Let's just do it now. John might-" Sherlock doesn't end the sentence, just jumps up and leaves the room in a rather hurried manner.

After a moment of consideration, I follow him. I find him in his room, sitting on his bed, with his back to the door. He is in his thinking pose, hands in prayer-position, the finger-tips touching his lips. The small movements behind his eyelids tell me that he is in his mind-palace, and I try not to disturb him too much as I sit down next to him.

Sherlock looks up when I push my phone into his hands, then on the phone. He looks down on his best friend, sitting in a rather old, slightly battered arm-chair, opposite a black leather chair with a violin in it. Watson looks better than the last time I saw him. Despite the cane leaning on the arm-rest, he looks healthier and more relaxed. His laptop-screen is glowing and I hope that the knock at the door (of 221B) is something good.

I curl around Sherlock on the bed, only barely touching him, and wait.


	12. Rehabilitation and Drugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ THIS PART NOW - I know that the realtionship of Kiara and Sherlock is very strange. I mean, she is the daughter of Moriarty and they don't know each other for that long. But I want to say to that, a) Sherlock knew her perfectly since the first time they met "three minutes would be enough to make me an expert, five is more than enough" or something like that, Sherlock says it on Moriarty's trial, and Kiara is not entirely stable. She isn't fully okay and normal, which you can see as she is really thinking about suicide.
> 
> But what ties them together is the wish to destroy Moran. These chapters that are coming now are there to make their relationship a bit more normal.

Mycroft arranges on Tuesday, the first of May, everything to be done with the media till Thursday. It's amazing how much evidence there is, collected by Mycroft, the homeless network, admirers of Sherlock who didn't believe the media or had been clients, the DI Lestrade, and most importantly, Dr Watson.

Sherlock is behaving strangely. He is even more closed off than usual, watches Dr Watson with my phone at least once a day and still seems to be happy. I think it is because we reached a huge milestone in our "journey" together. I don't know whether that makes me happy or sad. On the one hand I want to destroy Moran. I want him to be dead, and I somehow want Sherlock and Dr Watson to be "together" again, but I am at a loss of what to do later on. I don't really have any friends, I don't have what one would call a proper education and it'd be so boring. A normal job, after all I've been through? A normal, mundane life?

I do have a plan b. There is no reason for me to go on, Sherlock will live with Dr Watson and I'd be off on my own, so why bother? Why live at all?

I am very careful not to show these ideas and thoughts to Sherlock and Mycroft. I don't know what they'd do, but Mycroft is so powerful, I don't want to risk it.

These thoughts are buried at the darkest corner of my mind, not forgotten, but only looked at when I am completely alone.

On Thursday, I sneak out. The news have spread already, the rehabilitation of Sherlock Holmes is a hot topic. Everybody has seen the news, or heard about them, or is currently reading them.

I push the hood of my jacket up and walk through the streets. It's nice, just walking, listening to the noise of London, being part of the city. Somehow my steps carry me towards the old house Father and I used to live in. It's been nearly a since I saw Father last, a year and two days to be exact.

The pain and grief hits me once again and I cower down in a corner. The ache in my chest is ripping me apart, I can't breathe. Now the image of his smile, the sound of his voice, his smell, now I can still remember him, the picture of him in my mind is still clear. But already the lines are blurring, what will happen if I forget him? Only remember him as a name, as somebody who I once loved?

I don't dare going closer to the house. I'm not sure who is living there now, what if Andy is still there? David? Or worse, Moran?

Another flare of pain shoots through me when I realise that the house, which used to be the safest place in the world for me is now a really bad place to go.

Just as I'm wiping the tears of my face, the front door opens. I act without having to think, I jump up and flee, run away from the ugly truth - that I don't belong here any more.

I don't want to go home yet. Home? Since when is Mycroft's house home? I don't know and I don't care. I don't know what to do with myself so I keep walking, letting my mind wander. After about an hour of walking I am near Baker Street, and I can't help wondering how Dr Watson is. Sherlock must be in hell in the moment, not being able to go out, the newspapers writing about him, about Dr Watson, about Father.

I look down onto the pavement, grey, dirty, part of London, a city I love. I stop and stand still, bowing my head, just thinking, lost in the storm of thoughts that is my mind.

"Sorry!" I stumble when somebody bumps into me, nearly knocking me over, and when I catch my balance I look up, directly in the dark blue eyes of Dr Watson.

"It's okay," I mumble. My heart is beating furiously, my brain going into overdrive. What if he recognizes me?

"Are you okay? Standing there just like that?" He asks, and I suppress a quick smile. If he knew who I am – but then, the last time I saw him he was just as kind.

"You are John Watson, aren't you?" I ask and he sighs, annoyed. His concerned face vanishes and he just looks pissed off. As he narrows his eyes, I quickly continue.

"I'm fine, thank you, but I need to go now. I believe in Sherlock Holmes." With that, I start walking away, quickly, but I still hear what he calls after me: "Everyone says that now!"

And somehow, it is even worse hearing his sad, angry, exhausted voice than I thought it would.

Three hours later I am home. My left hip is stinging, so I hobble carefully up the stairs to Sherlock's and my rooms. My bag lands on the bed and then I'm out of my room again, knocking on Sherlock's.

"Are you there?" He doesn't answer, so I push down the handle and enter. Sherlock is lying on his bed, fully clothed, breathing deeply and calmly. Careful as not to disturb his sleep, I leave the room and close the door.

Sherlock doesn't go out for a month, and it's driving him as well as Mycroft and me insane. Without any distraction beside Mycroft and me, searching for threads in my phone and the web and watching Dr Watson he is slowly but surely sliding into depression. Mycroft told me about the danger-nights, and all of us in the house besides Sherlock is fearing him to break. It isn't a danger-night any more. It's a danger-month, and more than once I just leave the house for hours, once even two days. It might be cruel showing Sherlock my freedom, but I can't stand him right now.

But all that isn't the worst. In June, just a bit more than a month after Sherlock's rehabilitation, something is different. Very different. I don't know how he acquired it, as he didn't leave the house according to Mycroft and the staff, but when I enter his room after two hours walking through London, I can only stare in shock. Sherlock is sitting on his bead, belt around his arm, syringe in his hand. The needle is only millimetres away from his skin, and he is looking me, surprised.

"Kiara?"

This pulls me out of it and I rush towards him, hitting the syringe out of his fingers. We both watch, how it flies, in slow-motion, through the air, shining in the sunlight. I recognize cocaine, having been addicted to it as well, but this stuff is good. Much higher quality than what I used to take, but still, cocaine, in the hands of a former addict, in a very high dose. Maybe even overdose, depending on his tolerance. Then something hits me and I am thrown backwards. My head hits the floor, and I lie there, dazed, realizing belatedly that it is Sherlock who hit me. Only a second later I manage to connect the dots. His pupils had been huge when I saw them for that tiny moment, cheeks flushed. He is already high. And now reaching towards another syringe, also filled. But not cocaine – is that heroin? I struggle to get up again and grip his arm.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, stop!"

I don't know how it happens. Sherlock must have pushed me again, as I am back on the floor, but I have no idea how some of the drug managed to come inside me. I can feel it cursing through my blood, making me light-headed, happy, as I hit my head once again, but this time I close my eyes and am gone.


	13. Sentiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I am writing here is not real. I don't know anything about withdrawals or anything, only the stuff I could find on the internet and other fanfictions, so this all might be awefully wrong - or right, who knows?  
> TRIGGER WARNING: (probably wrong) description off withdrawals. If that bothers anyone, PM me and I'll send you an altered chapter, you can always do that by the way :D

Five hours later I am much better. Sherlock isn't, though, and I watch him sleeping in his bed. I worry about him. He will probably wake up soon, but he is going to go through withdrawal and that will be horrible. Another thing that scares me is the memory of his face, when I was trying to stop him. That Sherlock isn't who he usually is, and the fact that he took drugs is enough proof to show how big his depression really is.

When Sherlock wakes up, he is disorientated, exhausted and very much annoying. His hit has gone off, and he is starting to get symptoms of withdrawal. It is horrible to see him like this, nauseated and sweating, but I fear that it will get worse, a lot worse considering Mycroft's words to look out for myself.

A day after Sherlock wakes up, it really starts and even though I have gone through this as well, it shocks me once more how horrible it is.

The first thing is the vomiting. Sherlock looks terrible, but he knows he has to get clean. He wants to, and this is great, although I suspect he'll change his opinion soon.

Shortly after, the paranoia starts and he freaks out when a nurse hired by Mycroft tries to touch him. It takes nearly thirty minutes to calm him down, and it repeats itself twice.

His mood is very changeable, being three days after Sherlock woke up, and I fear the moment when the cravings will take over his brilliant mind. Even though they don't show it, I know Sherlock and Mycroft are scared as well.

"Kiara," Sherlock's voice is quiet and I look up from the book I am reading.  
"Yes?"  
"You have been through withdrawal as well. You know how it feels like."  
"Yes..."  
"The cravings are getting worse. Don't – Don't let me take more. Stop me, will you?" he sounds calm, sure of what's going to happen, and this makes me wonder. How can he be so sure, so in control? How many times did he go through withdrawals?

An hour later, he starts asking for cocaine. I decline, and he is still sane enough to understand. But he warns me that it'll change, that he will do anything to get cocaine. I don't know how true that is.

"Kiara, please," It's one of the first times I hear him saying the word 'please', and it worries me. How far will he go? I know that when I went through withdrawals, I was very violent. Of course, Sherlock isn't addicted any more, but one shot? It can already trigger so much.  
"No, Sherlock, you can't have any, you made me promise not to give you anything," I can see his eyes narrow, he's thinking of a way to persuade me. He's still lying in his bed, tense, but still lying, and I hope that won't change.  
"And now I am telling you to give me some!" He has reached the line, the line where the cravings take over.  
"No, Sherlock, I know it's hard, but you need to go through this!" He tenses once more and his eyes flit over my body. I know that reaction. He is preparing to fight, checking for weaknesses.  
"Sherlock...!" I warn him, but he doesn't listen and jumps. I am ready, and a quick hit to the neck stops his movement, I press the pressure-point on his right wrist and twist his arm to his back. He is still so weak from the overdose, and it scares me, but somehow I am slightly grateful as well.

I push the button calling the nurse and she comes running, shocked to see me treating Sherlock like that.  
"Just call Mycroft, tell him what's happening!" I shout at her, and after a second she leaves again.  
As soon as Sherlock hears Mycroft's name, he starts struggling again so I change my hold. He is ow nearly immobilised, his back to my chest, my head next to his.  
"Sherlock, calm down. You can get through this, but only if you don't give in to the cravings!" he shudders and his struggling gets weaker.  
"Please, Kiara, just one hit – one hit and everything will be fine!" His voice is breaking, and I can only hope that Mycroft comes soon as I continue to rock him slightly and decline again and again.

Mycroft is there five minutes later. He looks sad, but calm, expecting what's going to happen. He orders the nurse to restrain Sherlock with my and his help and then tells her to leave the room and only come in when she is ordered to by me or him.  
Sherlock is nearly begging by then. The cravings have fully taken over, and the only thing I can look forward to is the fact that according to Mycroft they will be over in a few hours. That doesn't exactly help my inner peace when Sherlock is partly shouting and offending us and partly begging for cocaine. More than once I leave the room for a few minutes to calm down and strengthen my resolve.

After about seven hours the cravings become less, and Sherlock slowly stops twisting and resisting against the restraints.  
"Kiara?" He sounds exhausted, but better than before.  
"Sherlock, are you feeling better?"  
"I don't know, I-" And before he can finish the sentence, he is asleep.

On the second of May, three days after Sherlock took the cocaine, Sherlock is mostly through it all. The paranoia is gone, but the depression is still there. I know we will have to work again as soon as possible, it's the only thing we can do to stop the depression. Mycroft is very close to catching the second thread, Paul Timothy, his deputy and Joseph Daunt, the third threat. Anthea is working nearly constantly, Sherlock is itching to help, or rather, take over, and I just can't believe how much has happened in the last year.

On the third, Sherlock's depression is worse than ever. He's still in bed, after Mycroft and me threatened to restrain him again, and doesn't even insult Mycroft when he comes in to inform us that Paul Timothy and his deputy are now in a safe-house somewhere far away. Only Joseph Daunt has managed to evade capture, and Sherlock's sneer is not mean enough. It surprises me that I want him to be mean, rude, hurtful, but everything's better than this.  
"Sherlock," I try once again to distract him.  
"What?"  
"On the day of your rehabilitation, I did two things. Firstly, I met Dr Watson." I now have his full attention, and I tell him what happened up till the point when I walked away.  
"The second thing I did is something I need to show you."  
"What did you do when you walked away from John? What did he do?" He interrupts, and I smile. The depression is at the back of his head, and I am starting to think that it's rather a mixture of boredom and the remaining depression from the cocaine.  
"Shut up, Sherlock, wait a second, will you?" I pull my shirt up a bit and push the top part of my trousers down, just a bit, so he can see the skin of my left hip.  
His slender fingers are cold as he traces the black lines on the tender skin, fully healed now. The writing his simple, but beautiful, and the black ink completes the picture of the text being a fact, being true.  
"I believe in Sherlock Holmes. Why did you do that?" His voice is quiet, careful, curious, and somehow he seems very young just then.

"Sentiment, Sherlock. Sentiment."


	14. Melissandre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Attempt of suicide (rather the threat of soing it) no blood or anything (not because of the suicide) I hope that won't bother you, if it doesn, stop reading and send me a PM, I'll send you an altered version of the chapter

The air of London is cold and damp, as always, but it's not raining. I am once again walking through London, avoiding Father's house and Baker Street, enjoying the freedom. I am alone, as always when I go; Mycroft is at his office who knows where and Sherlock is in his room, searching with the help of my phone and his laptop for the other threads, and more importantly, why Joseph Daunt escaped Mycroft. He isn't alone, though. One of the staff is always with him, in every room apart from the bathroom. Mycroft doesn't trust him not to take cocaine again, or another drug, and the man watching Sherlock doesn't want to lose his job. He only leaves when Mycroft or me are with the detective.

But for now, I try to ignore Sherlock and how he looked like when I showed him the sentence written on my skin, and keep walking.

When I walk through London, I always try to take different routes. Sometimes through full streets, sometimes along empty alleys, sometimes through parks. It's always different, and it keeps London interesting. It also gives me the chance today to do something I'll never forget.

The girl is twenty, maybe twenty-one. Her gold-brown hair is flapping slightly in the wind, the little draft. It is strange. These paths are almost always deserted, but she is sitting here with all the time in the world, back against the wall, knees drawn up to her chest.

Her eyes are closed as I come closer, not knowing what to do. What is she doing here? Why is she sitting there like that, like a homeless person, when, judging by her clothes and haircut, she clearly isn't?

And that's when I see the knife. The blade rests against her forearm, close to her wrist, not nicking the skin, but nearly.

"Hey," I whisper, quietly, hoping not to surprise her. She only opens her eyes and looks at me, her eyes unemotional, looking like doll's eyes. They are empty, hopelessly empty, and it scares me. That is the face of somebody who has nothing to lose.

"What's your name?" My voice is too loud in my ears, even though I am only breathing the words, but she slowly turns her head towards me.

"Why?" Her voice is just as empty as her eyes, but I try to not be intimidated.

"Because I'd like to know," For a moment I think I can see something in her eyes – is it sadness, surprise? – but the walls slam down again before I recognize it.

"Melissandre Baudelaire," This time I hear the accent, only barely audible, but there.

"I'm Kiara Moriarty – Melissandre, why do you want to kill yourself?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Why should you?"

"I don't know what's there to live for. My mother is dead and my father doesn't really care, my sisters and my brother are always away and I don't have friends – nobody likes me," I can hear from her tone that she is having problems with people her age – in uni, at a shop?

"You know the thing about suicide – it's something you can't reverse. I am thinking about suicide as well – not that I want to die now, but in a year or so – so I know what you mean. But that is because of where I come from, and I am not sure whether I will be brave enough. I think you might be brave enough, but have you thought about it? You can still be anything you want."

"And you? You are my age, you have time as well!"

"I have no education, no family, no real future. And as I said, I am certainly not going to kill myself now. In a year, when my friends are gone, which they will be. What are you doing in the moment, anyway? Education-wise?"

"I am in uni – politics and management. But they hate me, even the teachers."

"Melissandre, I can change that. Let me try. But please, give me the knife."

Melissandre looks down at the knife, as if only now remembering it, and looks up at me again. The walls, which had slowly dissolved, are threatening to come up again.

"Please, let me try. If it doesn't help, I..."

"Won't stop me? Do you think I'm going to believe that?" Her voice, so bitter, so lost, is unnerving.

"No, but I will try to help you as far as I can. Yes, me, a stranger, but believe me, I do know your situation."

Twenty minutes later we are walking through the streets, the knife hidden in my pocket. It's safer this way, if a police officer finds it Mycroft can bail me within seconds. I'm not sure whether he'd do it for Melissandre.

"So... Who exactly at Uni is so horrible to you?"I try to be sensible, but she just looks at me through the hair which is flapping slightly in the wind.

"Everybody. Well, no, the teachers are mostly just really annoying, but the other students are so horrible. I have been thinking about just stopping, dropping out, but I want to study this so much."

The way she says this is heartbreaking, this dream which changed into a nightmare.

The University Melissandre goes to is huge, private, and certainly very expensive.

"You live here? On the campus?"

"Yeah – don't have a room mate though, the father of the girl threatened to get a lawyer if she didn't get away from me – so I have my own room..."

We walk through the hallways quickly, Melissandre needs to pull me with her sometimes as I just want to stay and look at the beauty of this old building.

When we come closer to our destination, her room probably, Melissandre starts frowning.

"They are in there. They broke in again, how could they!"

And really, there they are. Two boys and three girls, all at least twenty, are in her room, sitting on the bed, looking through her stuff, leaving a complete mess. They look comfortable, confident, they know that Melissandre has already given up.

"Excuse me? What exactly are you doing here?" My voice is clipped and ice-cold, I know that my age won't impress them, so maybe I'll have to try other tricks.

"None of your business, Tiny." The girl on the bed says, flipping her long blonde hair around. I narrow my eyes when I hear the nickname, I mean I am not tall, but also not that small.

"I think so. Leave, now, this is Mel's room." Well, I tried to warn them. Anything now will be their own fault.

One of the boys, the taller one, stands up and slowly walks towards me. I have to look up to look into his eyes, something I am not very happy about, but anyway – he'll lose even quicker if he underestimates me.

"Tiny, that fits. Get back to your high-school and leave the grown-ups alone, will you?"

I sigh. He asked for it, still, I will get into trouble. Oh well, at least it will be fun.

"Mel, hold this?" I pull the knife out of my pocket. "I don't want to hurt myself."

Both Melissandre's and the boy's eyes widen, but Melissandre does as I told her. Carefully I stretch slightly, letting my neck pop and then look back to the boy.

My movements are fast and precise. A swift kick to the ribs pushes the air out of his lungs, then I grab his lapels and throw him behind me by rolling backwards. He lands outside of the room, and when he gets up, I am already standing again.

"Well done, you left. Now, how about the others?" I turn around to face them, anticipating the punch of the first boy.

He hasn't got any training in fighting whatsoever, no real training besides some brawls in pubs. His punch is fairly non-effective, and within seconds he is at the floor again. The other four students look at me, the fear is obvious on their faces.

"Leave. Now!" It doesn't take more, and the do their best not to come too close to me when they walk out of the door. The other boy pulls the first one up, and together they leave.

"Violence is no solution." Melissandre sounds like she is trying to be stern, but she only sounds happy and slightly scared at the same time.

"But it is an alternative. Sometimes. Don't worry, this won't be the end of it, but I have some connections."

My phone starts ringing just then and when I look at the screen it's Mycroft.

"One of whom is just calling me right now."


	15. The Person Closest To YOu

Time flies, or so I have noticed, not only when you are having fun, but in the moment it does. The whole hubbub about Sherlock being real has died down, and we are searching for the threads again. It is a boring time, repetitive, but that's maybe exactly why the last one and a half months seem to have vanished into thin air.

It's not as fast as I want it to be, the thrill of chasing the threads, the brilliant feeling after triumph is not there, and I miss it. We found Smith and Stone incredibly quickly, and we didn't have anything to do with Paul Timothy, but now I can feel why Sherlock broke down under the constant lure to take drugs. Apart from the one trip to Germany where Sherlock was completely surprised that I can speak German fluidly, it was utterly brain-killing.

This is about to change, I have this feeling of dread, when somebody calls Sherlock. It's not excitement, even though excitement is there, but the foreshadowing of something bad. I am not sure whether I want to know what it is or not.

"Hello?" Sherlock answers the phone carefully, putting it on speaker at the same time, who knows this number? It's untraceable, and it isn't his old one, even though he kept that one too.

"Really – I'd have thought you learnt your lesson."

The voice is indiscernible, computer-made, and Sherlock gestures to Mycroft to track it. The elder Holmes does it himself, we need to do so quickly and Anthea is getting some files, so for once he has to do it. Not that he can't do it, mostly he is just too lazy to do it himself, as I have noticed during the last months.

"What lesson? What are you talking about?" He doesn't ask who is calling, and after a second I realise why. Who would change their voice with a computer only to tell who they are?

"You should know by now not to let the person closest to you out of your sight." It almost seems as if the other person is amused, but I can't be sure.

"What have you done?!" Sherlock's voice is suddenly loud, and this time, I am sure the caller laughs.

"You'll find out."

I look at Sherlock and Mycroft, who are standing in front of the computer. They are looking at a map, at a little glowing point to be exact: It's a warehouse, abandoned and quite old.

"We need to go, he's got John! How could you let that happen?" Sherlock is agitated, very much so, but Mycroft surprisingly isn't as calm as I thought he'd be.

"Sherlock, I know this is the second time my information could be wrong, but it isn't this time! Dr Watson is at Baker Street, as usual. He isn't in that warehouse!"

"Mycroft – Whatever, we're going. Kiara, come on!"

I hurry to follow him, but when I glance at Mycroft, I see that he hasn't moved from behind the desk.

"I'll be watching. But he's not there."

Then I storm out of the room.

Mycroft's POV:

It barely takes a minute to activate the tracker in Kiara's coat, and Mycroft watches them hurrying towards the warehouse. He knows it'll take them at least twenty minutes to get there, so he starts busying himself with the files Anthea had brought in shortly after the call had ended.

The files are boring, but necessary, and after fifteen minutes he is through half of them, when Anthea comes in. In her hands is a tray, with tea and some biscuits, and Mycroft smiles up to her.

"You are heaven-sent, Anthea – thank you, my dear." he says when she puts it down.

"As always, Sir."

Watching Anthea leave the room, he pours himself a sup of tea and bites into the biscuit. It's sweet and perfectly on the fine edge of being too soft or too dry. The first sip of the tea is relaxing, and Mycroft smirks when he thinks about the cliché of British people drinking tea the whole time.

The whole calm, peaceful atmosphere is destroyed when a sharp pain erupts in his chest. He can't breathe, why is this happening? It's hurting, oh, it's hurting, and the last thing he sees while sliding from his chair to the ground is a woman hurrying inside the office.

Kiara's POV:

The warehouse is empty. Completely empty, full of dust, and I can see it written clearly on Sherlock's face – the confusion and the fear. Nobody's been here for months, years even, apart from that one trail of footprints to the one corner.

Sherlock hasn't even bothered to go to the corner. Standing in the middle of the room, thinking, in his mind-palace, he tries to figure out what's going on. When I see something grey in the corner, I pick it up and read what's on the little slip of paper.

"Hey Sherlock!" My voice is shaking as I look down at the single word.

It takes to tries to get him to notice me, and he looks quite pissed off.

"What if the caller didn't just mean you? What if he meant both of us? Who is closest to both of us?" I whisper as I show him the paper.

Sherlock pales and realisation dawns, as he gasps the word on the slip.

"Mycroft!"


	16. Where Is Your Brother?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo what did you think about the last one? I hope no-one is too bothered about a bit of blood - although there isn't too much of that in this chapter, rather in the next or the one after that or so - remember, you can always send me a PM.

**Mycrot's POV:**

When he wakes up, he can't see a thing. A few seconds later he blames the heart-attack for that first irrational fear of being blind. Was it a heart attack? He isn't sure. Anyway. It's not that his eyes aren't open. There's something in front of them. A blindfold?

Fine fabric, black, not see-through, pressure all around his head. Blindfold it is.

He didn't move at all since waking up, but he can feel the leather around his wrists, which are tied together behind his back.

Reassessment. Heart-attack? Unlikely – no further pains, not in hospital, given current situation. Kidnapping or hostage situation looking good.

No distinctive smell – no further information there. No sounds – wait. No sounds? Meaning somewhere away from street and nature, or something with very thick walls and without windows – basement?

Slowly the captured man becomes aware to more detail. He is sitting in a metal chair, the backrest is only a bar. He is tied to the chair securely and can't really move. His jacket, tie and waistcoat are gone, leaving him only his white shirt, trousers and shoes.

His fingers dance carefully over the leather-ties, assessing the quality of the material and the knots, trying to find out his chances of escape.

But as he is doing it, he knows it's no use. Somebody who kidnapped him from his own office, poisoned probably his coffee and managed to distract Anthea the whole time wouldn't be careless with his bounds. And so he stills and waits for something to happen.

He doesn't have to wait very long. After a few minutes steps become audible, starting somewhere above him and then coming towards him, only strengthening the theory of the basement.

There is something strange about the rhythm and sound of the steps – something barely familiar, but he is completely sure he has never heard steps like that before. The whole movement sounds are strange, but as he can't figure out what it is, he just stores it away in his mind and waits.

The person, a woman by the sound of it, doesn't stop in front of him, but walks around him. Her steps are telling him where she is all the time, so he jumps only a little when she grips his ginger hair from behind him and pulls his head back. The cold steel against his throat isn't unexpected either.

"Mycroft Holmes." The voice is changed by computer, indiscernible what it is like in reality, so he doesn't answer. Why should he? There's nothing he can gain from it.

"I didn't think I'd live to see the day when you wouldn't be in control of everything. I guess the world is full of surprises."

The voice doesn't betray any emotion, but Mycroft isn't bothered. He doesn't need to know how his kidnapper is feeling right now, as there is nothing he can do about it, and he does know that the woman holds a grudge against him. Again, something he can't change anything about.

"Okay. Where is your brother?"

That question  _is_ unexpected and Mycroft stiffens. Does the kidnapper know that Sherlock is alive? If yes, how?

When he doesn't answer, the knife is taken away from his neck and a long cut is made, starting at his right shoulder and ending near the middle of his spine.

Gasping, Mycroft tries to move away instinctively, but the hand in his hair keeps him in the chair.

"Where is your brother?"

The voice hasn't changed, still void of emotion, but now it's unsettling him.

"He is dead," he knows his voice is shaking slightly, and hopes that the woman will mistake it for shock because of the pain. Which is there. Definitely. The cut isn't that deep, only about a centimetre, but already colouring the back of his shirt red.

He knows his kidnapper doesn't mistake it, when another cut is made, this time at the back of his arm. Now he knows that it will be a very painful stay, but despite many accusations, he is very fond of his brother, so he doesn't dare say anything else. Mycroft's only chance is to rely on exactly Sherlock, and it pains him even further that Sherlock will be, to rescue him, in great danger.

And so he readies himself for the pain that is coming.

* * *

**Kiara's POV:**

He isn't there. Mycroft isn't at his office, hasn't left any note, hasn't called us or anything – so it is true. Someone has taken him because he would have never left us just like that. It's scary to watch Sherlock right now. He doesn't look furious or anything right now. No – he is ice-cold, and stone-hard. His gaze is merciless, and I know that whoever his wrath will be directed against, they will die. If not worse.

But still. Sherlock's in his investigation-mode, looking around, piecing things together, when he calls me.

"Kiara, what do you think is this?" He asks and I crouch down next to him. The thing he's pointing at is a small patch of carpet – a small wet patch of carpet. Judging by the colouring and smell, it's tea, and when I tell Sherlock, he nods.

"Tea it is, and Mycroft drank some of it. But what else is in there? That bitter hint, it's not because of the tea, that's poison. Not deadly, but it would have knocked him out quickly. Whoever did this is good, and knows far too much about us. We need to go. And exactly one hour after we left the office for the first time, left Mycroft, we storm out of the door.


	17. The Basement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mentions of torture and blood, as always, you can send me a PM.

After a few hours, Sherlock's ice-cold demeanour crumbles and becomes frantic. Anthea can't help us as she isn't working right now and we aren't closer in any way to finding Mycroft, but the time is passing and so is probably the chance of Mycroft's survival, if they plan to kill him – which is the most likely solution, we haven't got any message or similar from anyone.

At midnight, I stop. It's hard to stop looking, the nagging voice at the back of my head telling that if I just search for one more minute, then I will find something is hard to silence. But I also know that I am no use to Mycroft if I am tired enough to fall asleep while standing, so I touch Sherlock's shoulder.

"I'm going to bed, just a few hours," my voice is hoarse, croaky, because of the lack of use or water in the last ten or so hours.

Sherlock frowns, and opens his mouth, probably to tell me off, but I just shake my head.

"Four hours, I can't concentrate any more. Sherlock, I want to find him as much as you do, but use your logic! I won't find anything if I am this tired, and if I sleep a bit I'll be also fitter if we find a lead."

Sherlock sighs but nods. When I turn around at the door of Sherlock's room, he is already looking at the pictures of Mycroft's office again, shoulders hunched, rubbing his eyes once.

* * *

The first thing I notice when I wake up is Sherlock's voice. It seems he has learned his lesson from a few months ago, he shouts my name and shoves my shoulder instead of stealing my blanket, but still I am disgruntled. When he says that he knows where Mycroft is though, the memory of yesterday come back and I jump up.

"Out! Get the stuff!" I tell him, as I jump out of bed and grab some clothes. He runs outside and I change as quickly as possible.

* * *

The house is big and ugly. It's just a giant cube, grey, not many windows. But the surrounding garden is nice. The houses on either side are at least five metres away each, perfect if you want to keep somebody inside without anybody noticing.

We don't ring the doorbell. I take out my handgun and Sherlock picks the lock, then he takes out his gun and we go inside.

According to Sherlock, there are two persons here, one, if you count the ones who walked in here. I don't know how he figured that out, but I trust him. He said that two persons must have carried Mycroft inside, then one person left again – after bringing him to a door, which seems to be going down to the basement. Sherlock pushes the door open quietly and walks slowly down the stairs to another door.

* * *

When Sherlock and I burst into the room, I think I am ready for what I am going to see. But I'm not.

Mycroft is sitting in a metal chair, only in his grey trousers and white shirt, which looks strange on him, like it is way to big for him. But that's impossible. We saw him only a day ago, in that shirt, when it had as always fit him perfectly. And you couldn't lose that much weight that fast.

Beneath the chair there is a small puddle of blood and I desperately hope that Mycroft isn't hurt fatally.

His hands are tied behind his back, as I can't see them, and there is a black blindfold over is eyes. The ginger hair his tousled by the hand which is holding it and pulling his head back. It is strange and just not right to see him like this, all powerless and completely at the mercy of the person who is standing behind him.

But the worst is what I can see of his face. Even though he does not make a sound, he must be in agony. I don't know why this is worse than seeing Sherlock in the house with Smith and Stone, sitting in a similar chair, screaming. Maybe because I don't think Mycroft is as used to those dangerous adventures as Sherlock and maybe me. Maybe because I couldn't really picture him in a situation like this. Maybe because he is  _not_ screaming, but so obviously in so great pain.

Then my gaze wanders to the kidnapper and I gasp when I realise who it is. I grip Sherlock's arm, and he breaks his horrified stare at Mycroft's face and looks first at me then at the kidnapper. And cold fury spreads over his face.

 


	18. Anthea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always. PM me if you need to!

"I don't think I will have to ask you again," The emotionless voicenear his ear whispers, and as much as Mycroft wants to move away, the hand in his hair and the tip of the knife, trailing along the back of his hands, his palms and his fingers, now and then adding a new cut to the numerous ones he already has there, keep him still and motionless, despite the pain and the uncomfortable feeling he gets when the woman is speaking this close to his head.

"Because they are arriving right now."

The knife travels higher, to his waist, and the pressure increases as well. Just as the door bursts open, a deep cut is made along the length of his back, and he can't help the quiet moan that escapes his lips.

He can hear how Sherlock and Kiara stop, obviously shocked, and the embarrassment of being found in this situation fades in an instant, overruled by the relief that  _Sherlock is here._  Then the pain takes over again.

After a few seconds Kiara gasps, and somewhere behind the part of his brain that is screaming, he wonders why. Why did she gasp now, and not when she came in? That question is answered when Sherlock's voice cuts through the room, shocked, furious, angry, betrayed.

"Anthea!"

And suddenly, Mycroft understands – everything makes sense. All those times when his information was off, only a tiny detail, but still off; the surveillance at Stone's house; the failure when he tried to catch the threads, why they only managed to catch one and not two; and last but not least, how he had been kidnapped. They hadn't been mistakes. It had been Anthea all along. And now that Sherlock said her name, he recognizes the familiarity of her movements – he hadn't recognized before because he hadn't thought about it and because she had changed her behaviour completely – almost completely.

His fury is overwhelming, shortly even blocking out the pain. And then the information sinks in. Anthea. His Anthea had betrayed him, risked his, Sherlock's and Kiara's life. Anthea – who is still drawing on his back with the knife.

Suddenly all his rationality is gone. Fear spreads through him, he can feel his heart rate and breathing getting faster.

For the first time since he woke up he really starts to struggle, only his basic instinct to  _get away!_  cursing through his brain, even though he knows it's useless. His hands, bleeding and torn, are not much use, but he frantically tries to free them anyway. Some cuts on his back which had already stopped bleeding start again.

A hard pull in his hair and a deep cut at the back of his neck pull him back into his own self and he stills again, his breathing ragged.

"Yes. Mr Holmes the Younger."

Now she speaks with her normal voice again, if you can call it that. It now has a hard, cruel streak in it, and Mycroft notices in hindsight that this was her normal voice all along.

The knife makes circles on his back, and Mycroft just wants it all to end. He wants it to be a joke of Sherlock's, like he told Kiara to kidnap him the first time Mycroft met Kiara. A stupid wish. Even though Sherlock doesn't really like his brother, he would never torture him like this, and Mycroft isn't a man who lies to himself. This really is Anthea's work, even though he doesn't want to realise it.

The knife slowly moves down to his hands again, and when he feels it on his small finger of his left hand, he acts on instinct. Just as the knife turns and the tip points towards  _her_ , he hits against it with his hand and even though he can feel a blinding pain in his hand, he also feels the slight pressure when it meets Anthea's stomach and then the smooth movement when it slides inside it. And even though he barely feels it because of his own blood, for the first time in his life the blood of somebody else he hurt is on his hands.

* * *

The sight of Mycroft, struggling against his bonds, panicking, is unsettling. Very unsettling in fact, so Sherlock is a second quicker than me when Anthea suddenly gasps and stumbles away from Mycroft. Her hands are at her stomach, where the handle of the knife is protruding, and when Sherlock sees that I am rushing towards Mycroft, he changes direction and attacks Anthea. My focus is on Mycroft now, so I don't really notice what Sherlock is doing.

I kneel down in front of Mycroft and carefully touch his cheek, but he yanks his head away and I realise my mistake.

"Shhhhh, Mycroft, it's me, it's Kiara. We're here..." I don't know what exactly I'm saying, but it seems that it helps Mycroft. Slowly and very focused on not yet touching him, I reach up and around his head and open the knot of the blindfold as calmly as I can, conscious of my smell which now must surround him. I hope that it will ground him as well, and I can already hear his breathing getting slower. When the knot opens, the fabric is thrown across the room, where Sherlock is. Somehow I know that he uses it to tie Anthea up, and only seconds later he comes into my view and goes behind Mycroft. I can hear his gasp, but I am already focused on Mycroft again, cupping his face with my hands and using my thumbs to wipe away the tears from his cheeks. There are no other, dried tear-tracks, so I know that they must have been from when he realised it was Anthea.

"Mycroft, can you hear me?"

He is shaking and I don't know what else to do. Sherlock is untying Mycroft's wrists, very carefully by how long he takes, which I don't understand. Couldn't he just use his knife?

When I reach up to kiss his forehead, my fingers move on his neck and they get wet. I frown and when Sherlock gets up from behind his brother and kneels down next to me, I move away to leave him space and go behind Mycroft. What I see makes me want to gag.

The back of his shirt as well as the back of his sleeves are torn, cut, sometimes pieces are only held by tiny threads. I now understand why it looked like his shirt was too big for him. But what is so horrible is what is underneath the destroyed fabric.

Mycroft's whole back, arms and hands are cut, sometimes they only nick the skin, sometimes the cuts are disgustingly deep.

The bloody mess that once was intact skin is bleeding, causing the fabric to be soaking wet with blood. But nothing is visible from the front, where the shirt is still white, although wet because of sweat.

Sherlock didn't manage to open the leather-ties, as they are slick with blood. Once again it surprises me how human he actually is beneath his cold demeanour. Instead of just cutting it with his knife, which would have been the logical and effective way to free Mycroft, he realised that the cold metal of the knife would only hurt Mycroft further.

"Mycroft – My, I am going to put my hands on your arms first, and then I will move down to your hands. It's me, Kiara, don't worry, everything is going to be fine."

I don't know how I get the idea that I should do this, but I don't want him to be frightened by an unexpected touch at his bleeding hands.

"I'm okay, Kiara" Mycroft's voice is hoarse and very quiet, but I am glad he has spoken at all. Slowly I do as I said, and when I reach his hands, my fingers are red with his blood. He feebly tries to touch my hands with his fingers, so I lower my wrists a bit, so he can touch them and I can still free him.

The slick ties turn out to be rather easy to open, better than expected, and even though I don't voice it, I know that Sherlock stopped because he couldn't stand having his brother's blood on his hands.

 


	19. Nightmare

Mycroft isn't conscious when the ambulance arrives, which we had called after much consideration. Even though Mycroft does really need one, we both don't really trust his emergency contacts any more. The fact that Anthea is – was a thread has shaken us both to the core, and somehow I cannot feel bad for the fact that she died after the knife was  _somehow_  forced even deeper into her body.

We both know that we won't be sleeping much in the close future. We also know that we will take turns in watching Mycroft.

I don't know when I started to care so much for Mycroft. I used to think of him as the manipulative, bossy, arrogant, annoying big brother of Sherlock. But I think the moment I saw Mycroft then - helpless, terrified even though he didn't want to show it, in pain and so close to death - showed me something very different.

I still won't be able to spend long periods of time with him. I would still chose Sherlock over him – or myself – but he is still important to me.

The paramedics don't ask many questions. After Sherlock and me just ignored their protests that we couldn't drive with Mycroft ("He's our brother, you idiot!") they seem to accept it. The hospital is worse. While I go into surgery with Mycroft, which takes twenty minutes until we pull the 'British-Government's-Orders' card, Sherlock is left to answer questions. I don't even want to know what he tells them as I watch how the doctors try to put Mycroft back together. Now, his injuries somehow look even worse. Before the beautiful lie, that he isn't really that hurt, it's just some blood, was still existent. The long time the surgeons take and the sutures destroy that lie easily, but not at all carefully.

* * *

They keep Mycroft on sedatives for two days. They want to give him time, they said. Sherlock and I are constantly alert, tense and very stressed, only sleeping for two hours or less a day. Twice Sherlock woke me from a nightmare where not only Mycroft – bleeding, captured – but also Sherlock – in the chair, screaming – are in front of me. A merge of Anthea and Stone is behind them, torturing them and making me watch. Like in every nightmare, I can't move and I can only wait and watch them die slowly and in agony, from blood-loss and electrocution.

The third day, when Mycroft is sleeping, not on sedatives, is a relief as well as another burden, as I somehow don't want him to wake up to this horrible truth.

* * *

 _Everything is black. He can't see anything, not even a tiny bit of grey, but he can hear and smell and_ feel _. Somebody, Anthea, is walking around him. And Mycroft can't move while she cuts him again and again and again. He can only scream and hope that somebody (Sherlock) can hear him. The laughter of Anthea is in his ears, and when it stops, he can hear steps. Two people are rushing towards him, and like sometimes in dreams, you know things you shouldn't. Kiara and Sherlock stop, shocked, and he can hear their heavy breathing. Wait – how? Wasn't he screaming just then? No, Anthea stopped cutting him for a minute, and now she starts again. A particularly vicious cut makes him cry out, and he can feel how drop after drop of his blood leave his body. He is torn between the wish that Sherlock and Kiara_ do something _and the hope that they won't and get out of here alive._

 _When the knife is taken away from his back and his head is pulled back, he knows what will happen. Milliseconds before the knife slits his throat he grieves about how Sherlock never believed him that he cared and never forgave him for_ the event _._

* * *

A sharply drawn-in breath makes me jump and pulls me out of the little nap that I didn't mean to take. I can see instantly who did it: Mycroft is moving around in the hospital bed, obviously not fully awake yet, because he seems to start panicking. Walking over to his bed and touching his shoulder isn't something I consciously planned, it just feels natural.

"My, I'm here, it's okay, you're safe, I'm here."

When his gaze focuses on me, he calms.

"Kiara..." his voice is rusty and quiet, but I can feel tears welling up when I hear him. At least he can still talk.

"Hey My. How are you feeling?"

"Just great, as always." He tries a little smirk, and I have to turn away to hide my tears. I don't know why I am being so emotional about this. I wasn't when Sherlock was captured by Smith and Stone or when he took the drugs.

Before I can say anything else, the nurses rush in, and only slightly later the doctor. She is tall, pretty, with dark hair, and when I see her I know we are going to have a problem.

Mycroft's breathing quickens and I know he has seen her too, so I touch his shoulder again. She looks a lot like  _her_. It is strange how disgusting her name sounds now, even in my head, and I am pretty sure Mycroft feels so as well.

"Can EVERYBODY please go outside for a minute? It won't be long, just a tiny bit." I try to make my voice as commanding as possible and after about three minutes I have convinced them to do so.

"My, I'm back in a sec, okay?" I wait until he nods, then I take the arm of the confused doctor and pull her outside.

"Listen, Dr..."

"Green. Elaine Green."

"Okay, Dr Green, I know we haven't told you a lot about what happened. As you know, he was kidnapped and tortured, but what's so horrible about it is the fact that it was one of the persons we all trusted most. Anyway, my point is – you look like her. Quite much actually, and even though Mycroft usually is a very logical man, I think it wouldn't be good for him."

"So you want a different doctor."

"I'm sorry, but yes. No offence, I am sure you would be more than qualified and good enough, but for My's sake..."

She looks at me for a second, then nods.

"I see. I will ask Dr Whitehouse, okay?"

I smile gratefully, and she nods again before turning around. She is already a few metres away when I remember something.

"Dr Green?"

She turns around again and looks at me, curious.

"Is there a John Watson working here?"

"No, why?"

"Just asking..."

She smiles and walks away.

I go inside again, together with the nurses I had ushered out of the room. They examine Mycroft, and after a few minutes Dr Whitehouse comes as well.

My hand doesn't leave My's shoulder once.


	20. Scars

The following days are hard, very hard. Sherlock's first reaction to seeing Mycroft awake was strange. He stormed in after I called in, looked at his brother, took in the whole room and me in a matter of seconds and then ran out again. I guess it was too strange for him to see Mycroft like this.

Sherlock and I almost never leave his side after that. With Sherlock and Mycroft in one room and not really something to talk about is awkward, but somehow we manage it. We have to.

Every time we leave him alone and someone he doesn't know comes in, he panics. I don't know why he changed so much, and it scares me, but certainly I am not going to just leave him alone. Today was the first day he accepted the nurses without any fuss.

It's strange knowing that  _she_  had been working against us. The knowledge that she could have killed us all in our sleep is disconcerting.

* * *

When Emma, one of the nurses comes in, I break out of my thoughts and look up at her. Mycroft is strong enough to just let her change the dressings for his back, arms and hands, unlike four days ago when he was still unconscious.

"My, are you okay?"

His eyes focus on me instantly and after a tiny pause, unnoticeable to Emma, he nods.

"Do you want me to stay here or..." I'm not entirely sure what to do. Sherlock is on his break, having finished his shift an hour ago, and even though he probably isn't sleeping like he said he would I don't want to disturb him. I don't know what Mycroft wants, either. Should I stay here and watch or help or should I wait outside? I had never seen him topless or anything, not regarding the surgery, but that doesn't count. I don't know how he'd react.

"Stay. Please," I only nod and Emma starts.

She helps him sit upright which he accepts with narrowed eyes, showing the resemblance of the Holmes-brothers which you usually can't see. Neither of them like hospitals, and both of them have their pride. At least Mycroft takes better care of himself than Sherlock.

Carefully she helps him take off his t-shirt (which actually is quite weird on him, I mean, I am used to him wearing a suit!) and now I can see all the bandages properly.

His whole back is wrapped, as well as the back of his neck. As already visible before, also his arms and hands are clad in white, showing just how much damage  _she_  made.

Emma starts with Mycroft's back. Slowly she ease the bandages off, and now he looks thinner again. I bite my lip when I see his back.

The lines are mostly clean now, so I can see where exactly the cuts were made, but that isn't a good thing. His whole back is littered with wounds, most of them with stitches, certainly all of them painful. Emma doesn't do much. She only cleans them gently, while Mycroft is pulling a face and I wince sympathetically every time he does, and the bandages him back again. She repeats the same with his arms and his neck, but I need to close my eyes once she unwraps Mycroft's left hand.

It's swollen and red, the cuts standing out and his palm is slashed. I realise belatedly that this is because of him pushing the knife into  _her_  stomach, but still, I don't want to be in My's skin right now.

Luckily his right hand is a bit better, but I can't help but worry about the future. The government will survive a few days without him, maybe even two weeks, but after that? And more importantly, who will help him? Who will he let help?

* * *

Mycroft, and with him Sherlock and I, stay in the hospital for two weeks. By the end of it, Sherlock is bored out of his mind so his shifts are shorter, Mycroft is worried about the government and I am worried about Mycroft. Most of the cuts have healed, but somehow nearly all of them scar. The only one which are still in danger of opening again are four big ones on his back, and they still have stitches, but that doesn't mean that the other ones won't open. And even worse, Mycroft's "I'm a respectable politician"-look is diminished now. The white lines on his hands, the clearly visible welt where the knife cut so deep on his left hand, which is slightly stiff and not responding as Mycroft wants it to, destroy this picture. They do make him look different. Older, but also a bit more vulnerable, especially the scars on his neck.

Mycroft's fear of other people, unknown people is slowly wearing off and he is getting better and better, even though he doesn't trust anybody besides maybe Sherlock and me.

But that is something I understand now. When  _she_  had kidnapped him, tortured him, she had shown him how dangerous his position is – and that even with the deduction-skills every Holmes seemed to have, you don't really know the other person. What I don't understand, but accept gratefully, is why both Sherlock and Mycroft trust me. Maybe because they have no other choice.

* * *

Eventually I realise that I didn't talk to Melissandre in three weeks – without any warning. A look at my phone tells me that I have six missed calls and ten unread messages. All of them consist of Are you okay? What's going on? Have I done something?

So I decide to answer back as quick as possible. I only hope she isn't too angry with me for ignoring her.

Hey Mel. ~KM

Kiara! Where WERE you? ~MB

Sorry – one of my friends got hurt and we were in hospital with him... ~KM

God, is he okay? Who is we? ~MB

He will be, yes. Another friend... ~KM

How are things going in uni? ~KM

Okay, the others mostly ignore me – maybe that's because they think I visit you every few days. But I'll be happy when I'm done with it in December. ~MB

December? ~KM

Yes, I am graduating early... ~MB

Nice :D I need to go, sorry, the doctor is here, My might need me. ~KM

What? ~MB

My, nickname for my friend – he is having a bit of a hard time this month, so... ~KM

Okay, I get it :D Write again soon, k? ~MB

Will do :* ~KM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more of Mel here - in case you forgot, she is called Melissandre Baudelaire, darum MB... She will play a big part in the story as well, probably. By the way, what do you think about a sequel to this one? I mean this story is far from over, when you think about it, I think four months have passed since Kiara and Sherlock teamed up, at least another year will be in, but after that? Review and tell me what you think?


	21. A Promise

Two days later, Mycroft is allowed to go home. We pack up the stuff we have here in ten minutes, and then Sherlock and I stop in the same moment and look at each other. Mycroft doesn't notice, he is getting changed in the bathroom, and even though it's not his usual three-piece suit, it is classic, comfortable clothing. I drop my phone and the ear-phones I found under the bed after searching for them for ten years on the bed and go to Sherlock.

"How are we going to get home?" I whisper and he frowns slightly.

"Cab wouldn't be good, it'd be a bit crowded. Same with bus, underground, etcetera. Maybe – I know it might be hard for Mycroft, even though he is better, but we could call Thomas to pick us up. He'd do it, of course, and it might help Mycroft to get used to it all again."

It's not ideal, but I nod anyway. It's the best we've got.

While Sherlock is calling Thomas, I knock on the door to the bathroom.

"My? Are you ready?"

The door opens and Mycroft looks down at me. It is good to see him in more formal clothes. Him being around in a t-shirt was just weird.

"I'm ready."

* * *

The ride is silent, but in the thirty minutes it takes I can feel how Mycroft relaxes just a tiny bit. As we hoped, he seems to be getting back into his British-Government-Persona.

Thomas behaves brilliantly. He stays away from Mycroft at least a metre, always, and keeps his hands visible. He moves at normal speed, but nobody is fooled by his innocent face – all of us know that he is controlling himself to move not too fast.

Being finally home is wonderful, even if the house smells strange. Sherlock tells me that this is wrong, as the staff cleaned everything every two days and opened the windows as well, that it is only because I smelled something else for two weeks, but I stay with my belief. I somehow like it, it seems somehow a sign of the major change. Mycroft just smirks and I am sure that for once he actually agrees with his brother.

* * *

The first night is strange. The certain feeling of responsibility is somehow gone as well as still there. Sherlock's and my shifts are over, but I still think we should be careful.

Once more I have to think about the fact that Mycroft wouldn't be in such a trauma, would probably lock it away in his version of a mind-palace, be a bit strange for two days like Sherlock was after Smith and Stone, if it weren't for Anthea. Anybody else, apart from Sherlock, could have done it, and Mycroft wouldn't be this bothered.

I am pretty sure what hurts him so much, even though he would never admit it: Anthea had been the person he trusted most, with everything. Of course, there is Sherlock, but Mycroft didn't tell Sherlock that much. But Anthea, oh, Anthea had been there every day, at nearly every time Mycroft was awake. To put so much trust in a person and then have them break it is horrible, but Anthea did more. She successfully hid who she really was, from Mycroft as well as Sherlock. She made him lose faith in his deduction-skills, and she didn't just betray him – she worked against him the whole time.

* * *

I have always been a light sleeper. I guess that comes with being used to danger, and also it is something I got from Father. He didn't sleep very much, and if he did, he woke up every time I opened the door to his bedroom. Not that I did that often, but still.

I am very happy about this fact now. At around two in the morning I wake up. Everything is dark, just the silver light of the room illuminates parts of the room. I can hear the creaking of the trees outside and the quiet whistling of the wind, but I am not sure what woke me up. I never wake up because of those sounds before, well, not if they were this quiet. I love storms, but they are horrible when I want to sleep.

After a minute, when I almost consider to go to sleep again, I can hear it. The slight moan and the breath, drawn in sharply. It doesn't sound like Sherlock – but it comes from his direction.

It takes a moment until I realise that it must be Mycroft. My door is slightly ajar, and so is his, and his room is at the end of the corridor. This was strange to think about when I found out yesterday, but in hind-sight it does make sense – Sherlock asked Thomas when we came here whether he'd be staying in his old rooms, so why shouldn't Mycroft stay in his old room? And children's rooms are usually close to each other.

I get out of bed silently, and consider taking a hoody with me, but I decide against it. It would take longer to find one, and what for? I am fine in my tank top and jogging trousers.

My feet only make a quiet tapping sound on the wood, when I follow the sounds to Mycroft's door. Everything is dark in his room; the window is to the other side so not even the moon makes anything lighter.

I turn on the big light and I am very grateful for the expensive light-switches Mycroft has in his house. They are not actually switches, but you have to turn them around and they turn on the light gradually and you can choose how light you want it to be.

I keep it so dark that I can see Mycroft, but that it isn't uncomfortable in any way. Mycroft is on his bed, half under, half above them blanket, twisted in it, and trying to get out. Looking around, I slowly walk towards him. It would be stupid not to have a weapon somewhere, and I don't want to be injured, but I know that I have to wake him up. I usually would have considered letting him sleep and then forget about it if he doesn't wake up, but I don't think that is how the Holmes' minds work.

I try to keep my touch light while I call out his name, alert for any sudden movements of his, ready to jump backwards or drop on the floor, but he doesn't react.

"My! Mycroft!" I say it again, more harshly than before, and shake his shoulder, twice, until he breathes in a shuddering breath and turns around. After a second, his eyes focus on me and he recognizes me, and slowly, his breathing starts to even out.

I don't know what to say, not at all, so I just look at him, and he looks back. It feels like an eternity, but no more than a few seconds have passed when I swallow and remember the situation he is in. Without a word, I carefully take the blanket and pull slightly. It loosens a bit, and Mycroft moves off it and then he is free. It wasn't hard, not at all, but I know in what prison his mind must have kept him. He slowly lies down properly again and pulls the blanket over him again, and I get up and walk to the door.

We haven't spoken a single word, it is almost like a spell, a promise that what happened just now will not be mentioned again, but I decide to say something before I leave.

"Goodnight, My." And with that I turn and leave, but I am careful to leave the door open.

I don't wake up again this night before the sun is up. And apparently, neither does Mycroft.


	22. He was your dad, wasn't he? Jim Moriarty?

The next morning is quiet; we don't have the usual breakfast but just toast, jam and honey, of course all so posh that you would never find them anywhere else but here. It doesn't taste any different, but I don't say anything about it.

Neither Mycroft nor I acknowledge the fact that I was in his room last night.

The whole day is tense, and the strange atmosphere doesn't lift. Neither of us three really knows what to do. Before, Mycroft had regular check-ups and appointments and visits from the doctors every day, and Sherlock and I had either been with Mycroft or slept, so there isn't anything to fill the time.

I try playing games on xBox, playstation and Wii, but it's not very interesting. I do so for two hours though, trying to tell my mind that I want to do this.

A vibration of my phone finally brings the distraction I want. It's Melissandre, asking whether I had time to meet up for lunch, and I text back instantly which place I'd like to go to. The atmosphere is stifling, and here is a great escape.

Braiding my hair, I walk down the stairs and look for Mycroft: Somehow it feels necessary to tell him where I am going.

* * *

The little café is cosy, nearly hidden between the bleak other shops and windows, a little oasis of warmth and light. Only the door is visible from the outside, but in the inside is a little room with maybe seven tables and a counter. They are out of brown wood, not exactly very light but not dark either, just like the floor and the chairs. The walls and the ceiling are orange and red, mixed, making everything feel warmer and more comfortable. I'm there first and go to a table in the corner, already ordering a hot chocolate with marshmallows and wait for Melissandre.

* * *

She arrives five minutes later, and we order a coffee for her, some sandwiches and a lemonade for me.

"Hey, Kiara – so how have you been?" She asks as soon as the waitress leaves our table.

"I've had a busy time – with my friend and everything – well, busier than usual." I smile slightly when I remember how it was before Anthea. It was strained, yes, but not at all easy or boring..

"Usual? School so bad?" Mel's voice is sympathetic and I am very glad that I never had to endure school, if it is so bad like she thinks it is.

"No, I don't go to school. I have some stuff to do, I need to find some people, I need to look after a friend who should be able to do it himself but doesn't and now I have to look after My as well." I try a smile, but I know it's not really working – it's not that I am really angry or unhappy with the fact that I have the feeling that I have to look after Sherlock and Mycroft, but they are annoying at times.

"Hmmm not good. Where did you go to school?"

"I didn't. I have been in a school on two occasions, one time I needed something for my father and the second time was when I was with you." I smile at her astonished face, knowing that it is illegal to not go to school.

"Father taught me what I need to know – let's say, I never needed anything else."

She still looks confused, so I try to change the subject, but she suddenly seems to remember something.

"Kiara, your last name is Moriarty, right?"

"Mel. Don't – don't go there please."

She looks at me strangely, and I know that she knows who I am. Well. That's probably it, then, nobody wants to be friends with a psychopath's daughter.

"Kiara – he was your dad, wasn't he? Jim Moriarty?"

I swallow once, and look down, suddenly the table is quite interesting.

"Right. Okay. That explains – a lot. Certainly." Melissandre's voice is hoarse, shocked, and I can almost already hear the scraping of the chair, maybe some words too, something like  _I never want to see you again_  or  _freak_  or  _you shouldn't be alive_. They are all old, the voices, although old and muddled, resonate in my head. The memories are so old, they are from my very early child-hood. I had thought that what Father did was normal, that everybody did it. The response I got is one of the reasons why I never went to school, and never wanted to.

Mel doesn't do it. She doesn't do anything, and I am not sure whether her lips are thin because she is restraining herself or because she is scared. I don't blame her if she is scared. It's only natural – she knows what Father did, she has seen what I can do.

"I'm sorry," I croak out and grip my hoody, which I took with me for some reason, even though it is July.

I jump up and leave the café, holding my head high, but I don't look at Melissandre at all. I don't want to see what she is thinking.


	23. I don't need you!

Sherlock sees through my façade as soon as he sees me, and raises his eyebrows, but I don't comment on it. He isn't so ready to let the matter drop, I'd almost call it concern if that wasn't so very unlike Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't worry about things like that, he'd only care when somebody is dying, and then only sometimes.

"Kiara, what happened?" He sounds curious, and this is when I realise what's going on. He is deducing me, fighting the boredom. I wouldn't mind at a normal day, but I cannot stand it now.

"Nothing, Sherlock! Nothing interesting enough for your massive brain, if you weren't bored!"

"I -" He starts and frowns, but I storm out of the room before he can finish his sentence.

* * *

Two hours later I am in the basement, drenched with sweat, only wearing sweatpants and a sports-bra; the equipment for boxing and knifes is cut and destroyed, but I can't care right now. Mycroft has enough money, it won't bother him. And who cares if he does? I am not there to babysit them! Just like I told Melissandre, I do a lot for them, it's not my job. I am seventeen years old, for god's sake!

I don't notice the tears running down my face, and it will take some more hours to see what I am right now: I desperate, lonely, under-age girl, without parents, the father's death only a year ago, not mentally stable from the beginning, breaking down now, when the bonds, the unstable, weak links to normality waver because of the rejection of a friend.

Suddenly I see Melissandre's stony face in front of me again, just when she realised who Father was.

"Well, fuck you! I don't need you! FUCK YOU!" My voice is hoarse when I scream out the words, and I throw one of the knives in my hand as hard as I can at the boxing-bag. I know the throw is bad, the power and energy misguided, so I duck in time when the knife bounces back.

Only seconds later, the wooden door opens. Whipping around, the other knife leaves my hand, only barely missing Mycroft and sinking deep into the door.

"WHAT?"

Mycroft flinches when the knife misses him by millimetres and doesn't answer, but slowly walks towards me, looking me up and down, deducing me. It should have been awkward and embarrassing, standing in front of him in in only a bra and shorts, sweaty, exhausted and with red eyes and a snotty nose, but it isn't. I know he isn't looking in that way.

I do it without thinking. As soon as his hand touches my shoulder, I step a little closer and hug him, cling to him desperately, but still careful of his back.

The fine fabric beneath my fingertips is the only thing that grounds me, that keeps me sane. I can feel Mycroft stiffening, but because he carefully puts his hands on my back, I know that he is just surprised and astonished, not in pain. He stands still and doesn't say a word when I bury my face in his shoulder, soaking his suit with tears.

It is very surreal, standing here, hugging him, crying on his shoulder, but I am immensely grateful. This is the breakdown that had to come, and it could have been a lot worse and painful.

* * *

After ten minutes, I pull away and look at him. The fear that I have crossed a line is there. The Holmes-brothers are not the hugging, cry-on-my-shoulder type. He looks back into my eyes, calmly, but I can see understanding in those grey-blue, all-knowing orbs.

"Thank you," I whisper and take a step back, wiping my face.

* * *

Just like with his nightmare, we don't talk about that incident. After I showered and came back into his office in acceptable clothes, where Mycroft is waiting for Sherlock and me, he only looked at me and nodded at me and then Sherlock came in. He must have noticed something, but for today he seems to have learnt his lesson.

Mycroft and Sherlock go back to planning and searching and destroying Father's and now Moran's web. Neither of them can just sit around and heal in peace, I have noticed, they must keep themselves occupied. Understandable, with their huge intellect, but sometimes I just wish for some peace. Then again, Mycroft rested for more than two weeks, which is at least three times as long as Sherlock would.

I ignore their conversation, and lean back in the chair. It's harder without Anthea, but at hind-sight it is unsettling how much we relied on her and how vulnerable we made ourselves. We only answer to ourselves now – but I can see by the way Mycroft behaves and moves and every once a while looks around as if to tell Anthea to get something.

Mycroft's office is warm and it is wonderful to just hear them both talking, planning, working, being alive and relatively safe and normal again, that I can't help the pull of sleep, lulling me into darkness.


	24. Hello Kiara, slept well?

The next time I wake up is in the middle of the night. I am in my room, which is a little surprising, until I remember Sherlock telling me to sleep in my bed and not the chair, and then helping my get to my room. It's all a bit blurred, it might just be all imagination, but I like the idea.

It only takes a second to realise why I woke up, the door is ajar. There isn't much sound, but I somehow know that I woke up because of Mycroft.

Just like yesterday, I don't turn on the lights, I just walk quietly to his room and push the door open. I don't even have to think about it, my hand just moves to the light switch and turns it on a bit, and then I can see Mycroft. Today, he isn't making any sound, or moving at all. No, he is lying there, still like a corpse, only the rapid, shallow breaths betray him.

"My, wake up! Wake up, it's not real, I'm here!"

Mycroft opens his eyes almost instantly, and seems to be alert, so I smile at him and leave the room.

* * *

He wakes me once more this night, after which he decides he needs to work anyways and doesn't go to sleep again, and then the next night and the night after he wakes me up at least once.

* * *

Four days after my lunch with Melissandre is the first time I hear him say something. It is before I can wake him up, and it is not much, but I am pretty sure that I can hear "'Lock... You – I – no!"

Finally he looks at me with his alert, but tired blue eyes again, when I make a choice. Even though he will never say anything and I can only see it because he just woke up, he is exhausted and can't go on like that. And I don't want to either.

"Budge over." I am not entirely sure whether this is a good idea, but I don't pull back.

"I – What?" That clearly is the exhaustion speaking there, otherwise he would never have said something like that, and that makes me continue.

"Budge. Move over. Your bed would be big enough for two full-grown men, so I'll be able to fit in, won't I?"

He still just stares at me, and is clearly to shocked to really understand what I mean, so I just slip into his bed. Luckily he does wear pyjamas, I have seen them so often when I woke him up, otherwise it would get even more awkward than now.

"I don't want anything from you, My. But this way, it is easier to wake up – you should be able to see the logic." When he nods, he already is nearly asleep again, so I think it's rather exhaustion than understanding right now, but he will understand in the morning.

* * *

Waking up the next morning is brutal. My pillow is hard, but strangely comfortable, and the bed seems too small. Also, I am tired as hell.

I just lie still and enjoy the warmth and the peace until my pillow moves. My eyes snap open and I frown for a moment at my grey pillow. Why is it grey? It's meant to be red, it used to be red. When I look up, I remember what happened last night – and why I'm so tired.

Mycroft looks down at me, slight amusement evident in his face, but luckily annoyance as I feared after what I did last night.

"Morning, My," I sound croaky and sleepy, but who cares?

"Hello, Kiara. Slept well?"

I dont answer, but smile slightly and put my head back onto his chest, which I had used as a pillow. It's strange, I realise, that he didn't wake me up. I am curled up beside him, knees pulled up to my chest, gripping his pyjama-top with my left, and I am nearly falling out of the bed, but I don't mind. I didn't lose balance yet, so hopefully I won't anytime soon.

"Kiara, I – I think you should know -" He tries to speak, but I interrupt him as soon as I understand what he is trying to say.

"Shush, My, this doesn't mean anything in that way. You have nightmares, I am too lazy to always get up and go to your room and your bed is big enough. What time is it?"

I would have sworn he chuckled just then, but this is Mycroft Holmes, the iceman! He wouldn't chuckle or laugh about things like this – then again, neither does he share his bed with somebody.

"Just after eight, breakfast will be in half an hour."

I just breath in and out once more, then I push myself up and can barely stop myself from falling out of the bed.

"I'll see you in half an hour, then."

I ruffle his hair once, which he responds to with raised eyebrows, and then leave the room.


	25. Another Promise

Four days later Sherlock and I am ready to leave to Russia. Mycroft isn't coming, and I am a bit worried about him, but he says he can't come because he does actually needs to work. Sherlock's only comment was that he did have to run the government and the secret service – he wouldn't like to leave to many boring cases for Sherlock.

I have no idea why they think that Joseph Daunt is in Russia, but I trust them both. Well, actually, we also want to collect information on the rest of the web, but still, Daunt is our main goal.

The car stops in front of the airport and I smile at Thomas, who drove us here. I said good-bye to Mycroft before, he is not here with us, and I made him promise to call if he needed to. I am 99% sure that he won't, but I feel better this way.

Sherlock checks us both in, he is going as John Harrison again and I am using the ID I got from Father over a year ago. Somehow he manages to do so in less than ten minutes, so we have one hour to wait for the plane.

The new phone is better than my iPhone, it is about two years newer than mine, but I have my own with me. It'll be in a safe all the time, but I don't want to leave without it.

Sherlock is in his mind-palace, which does look quite weird considering he is wearing the same outfit as he did when I met him in Paris; the t-shirt, jeans and leather-bands don't really fit to the intellectual pose. He does have some suits and his coat,  _finally_ , he had said,  _I can wear it again_ , in his suitcase, but I am pretty sure that even Watson would have trouble to recognize him now – he cut his hair as well, dyed it to a light brown and somehow made it lie flat, instead of his unruly curles.

* * *

Getting on the plane doesn't take long and I steal Sherlock's seat next to the window. He just rolls his eyes when I grin at him, and flops down next to me.

* * *

After the seatbelt-lights turn off, I take out my phone, my iPhone, and just look through it. I am already terribly bored, and I have a lot of time, 2 hours, until we land in Munich, to get to the plane that goes to St. Peters-burg. My finger hovers over the folder with pictures, I don't have many, but some of Andy, David, Irene, and most importantly, Father. He never liked it when I took pictures of him. He always said that I shouldn't tell him, so it would look natural. It worked only sometimes, most of the time he knew when I was coming with my phone, but there is one picture of him, which shows him how he was.

It shows his face from nearly the side, nearly the front, he was turning towards me when I took the picture. There is a smile on his lips, and his eyes are twinkling, this is my smile. Only I get this smile, only I have ever seen this smile. He is looking up at me, not at the camera but my face, and his mouth is open slightly, he had been saying my name.

I smile back sadly, I took that picture three years ago, before I had ever met Sherlock, before I had even heard about him. The times have changed drastically, I would never have imagined what I am doing now.

"They spit fire, see, you need to be careful, or you'll get hurt."

"But Father, you wouldn't let anything bad happen, would you?"

"Of course not."

The child sitting in front of my seat is smiling, I can see it mirrored in the window, and the father is ruffling his hair, neither of them know what their words do to me.

The picture and the words trigger something in me, a memory, and I can't fight it.

* * *

_It's the 27_ _th_ _of March, 2005, it's my tenth birthday. The birthday cake in front of me is not made by Father. Andy or David made it, but it's Father who is sitting next to me, smiling at me._

_He touches my cheek once, the soft touch and it's meaning make me smile widely at candles are already out, I made my wish a minute ago, wishing for him to be there more. On working-days I only see him in the morning and the evening, and on the weekend he is in his study most of the time, so I can't really do anything with him. When he is here though, he plays with me and talks with me and teaches me. Those times are the highlights of my week, and the more I get, the better._

_Father gives me the big knife, I wanted to cut the cake on my own for the first time._

" _The blade is really sharp, Spitfire, see, you need to be careful, or you'll get hurt."_

_I nod, listening to him, saving the advice to my memories, then look at him again._

" _But Father, you wouldn't let anything bad happen, would you?"_

_He smiles at me, he smiles my smile._

" _Of course not. I'll always be there and watch out for you."_

_I touch his cheek as well, and then start cutting the cake._

* * *

"Kiara! Kiara!" Sherlock's voice sounds worried, and that is what pulls me out of the debth of my mind. What is he worried about?

"Kiara, are you alright? What's going on?" I blink once, twice, and when I look at his face I realise that he must have been calling my name for some time.

"I-" My voice is hoarse so I swallow once, then continue. "I'm okay, just a memory." He narrows his eyes for a second, but accepts it and nods.

This is when I realise that he has my phone in his hands, probably after I dropped it when the memory started. I snatch it out of his hand and turn it off, suddenly angry at Father.

" _I'll always be there and watch out for you."_

As if. Where is he know? When I am on a plane to chase an enormously dangerous criminal with a slightly unstable sociopath, who also happens to be the nemesis of Father.

I know the phrase is just something you say to children, I knew that he was going to die one day, but for me it used to be something very far away, something almost impossible. Father, Jim Moriarty, dying?

He wouldn't, couldn't, because he had me, right?

" _I'll always be there and watch out for you."_ Another promise he didn't keep.

 


	26. You kind of have... aquired my lipstick.

The weather is surprisingly warm here in Russia. It's the fifteenth of August and the twenty degrees make me smile. Sherlock thinks that the Joseph Daunt might be connected to the head of a smuggling ring here in St. Peters-burg and we want information.

The hotel we are staying in is cheap and quite uncomfortable, but we don't want to draw attention to ourselves by using one of the more expensive hotels.

We booked only one hotel-room, which has a very narrow double-bed, as we are going as siblings, and both of us agreed to do it this way. If Daunt should find out who we are and what we are doing he will kill us as soon as possible and it would be no good if we were apart, maybe even sleeping, both of us.

We are planning to stay here for two weeks, and frankly, I am worried. I am worried about us, without any real protection, and maybe even more about Mycroft. His nightmares and admittedly now very rare bouts of paranoia will make our absense very hard.

Even though he already knew I texted him when we arrived. He did answer me, surprisingly, even though he didn't really say anything.

* * *

It's getting darker every minute while we are following our suspect. He and his companion have been walking through the streets for hours and Sherlock insisted on following him the whole time. I see why he found it necessary, we would never have found them otherwise, but still, it's annoying. I hadn't anticipated this when I got dressed, hoping for the relaxed day Sherlock had promised me, so now I am wearing a black skirt and nylon tights, together with a dark top and a cardigan. All the while chasing someone, which isn't the best situation you can get. Luckily, I never liked high-heels, so I am wearing comfortable, practical shoes which still look really nice.

Sherlock stops so suddenly that I nearly run into him.

"They turned around, they are coming towards us," his voice is hushed and he pulls me into a dark corner. We both know that running away is no use, we still want our information, especially the one we can get if we listen to the meeting they are going to now.

"How long?" I whisper back and he frowns, already taking out his gun.

"A minute? Maybe,"

That is enough for the idea which forms in my head, and because it is our only chance, I get to work.

Out of my pocket I pull the make-up I had initially bought for Irene (after realising that I hadn't even thought about her for ages) and paint my lips a dark red. I smudge the eye-shadow carelessly on my eyelids, knowing that the minute is half gone. Then I take off my cardigan and push it into Sherlock's hands. He is just looking at me, quite surprised and perplexed, but I don't pay attention to him and continue. I pull my skirt up until it only barely covers my bum and move my top so it looks messy and my black bra is visible. The last touch is fluffing my hair up with my hands.

"How long?" I whisper again and luckily he understands what I mean.

"You should already be able to hear them – ten seconds?" He doesn't say the words out loud, just forms them with his lips, I nod and grip his lapels. And start kissing him.

When he tries to push me away, just on instinct, I hold on and whisper between kisses, "Just kiss me like you'd kiss a prostitute. Like you want to have sex with me."

Now I can only admire his intellect because he understands right away, and even if he doesn't he obeys. In a quick movement he slides out of his coat, ("too unique", he whispers) and pushes me against the wall. With one hand he grips my breast, the other arm is around me on my bum. I put my hands in his hair and on his back.

The kisses are hot, very sexual and they do their job. Our suspects walk past us and keep walking. After about ten seconds I start breaking the kiss but he somehow tells me to go on. After five more seconds he breaks the kiss and takes a step back. His hair is messed up, his lips are red from kissing and we are both out of breath, but that's okay. I straighten my clothes and take out a tissue to wipe the make-up off my face. When I'm done, I give Sherlock the other one. He frowns.

"You kind of have – acquired my lipstick," I whisper, grinning. I don't know how far away they are, and I don't want to risk it.

While Sherlock is trying to get the lipstick, which is smeared around his mouth, off, I pick up his coat and take the cardigan out of the pocket.

"That was close," is my only comment. Then we follow them again.


	27. Emotional

The meeting is very informative. Sherlock records everything on his phone and I do as well, just in case we lose one. We hear names of criminals, big names, but we don't hear the name we want. Joseph Daunt is not here in Russia, despite Sherlock's theories and this will shorten our stay here significantly, something neither Sherlock nor me are sad about – I don't think he realises it himself but he is worried about Mycroft.

We start to leave when the meeting ends, but we are too slow. The people we were following just before come our way and they recognize us.

"Алексей, они за нами следовали **!"** says the bigger one and even though I don't understand Russian, judging by the look on Sherlock's face it's bad.

"Проститутка - конечно, они всё слышали **!"** the other one shouts and suddenly both of them attack us. Sherlock takes out his gun, but as I don't have one because I had been shopping when he picked me up, he throws it towards me.

"Du brauchst die mehr als ich! Pass auf!" he shouts in German and I whip around. Alexei, the second man, is trying to get behind us and we start fighting.

After a few minutes, I manage to shoot Alexei in the leg. As he falls to the ground, howling, I hit him over the head with the gun and he's out cold.

When I turn around, I gasp in shock. Coming down the alley towards us is a third man. Sherlock is so busy with the first man that he doesn't notice the oncoming attacker. Just as Sherlock manages to hit his opponent in the stomach, who grunts and staggers backwards, a metallic sliver flies through the air.

* * *

Sherlock's POV:

Sherlock is shocked and surprised for the first time in months. Struggling to take it all in, he watches Kiara fall to the ground in front of him. What happened? He remembers punching his opponent in the stomach and then suddenly Kiara was in front of him. She had thrown a knife (where did it come from?) at an oncoming attacker, a third one Sherlock hadn't noticed, and then shot their suspect. And now she is lying on the ground, tears streaming down her face as she presses down on her stomach.

It takes a second for Sherlock to understand. Somebody had thrown a knife at Kiara – she hadn't stood there only a second before, the knife had been for  _him_  – so somebody had thrown a knife at him and she had jumped in front of it? Why would she do that? It doesn't make sense. But the most important thing now is Kiara.

He kneels beside her, taking his suit-jacket off and pressing it down at the wound. He knows that he should call an ambulance, but he is wary. They are in a dark alley, surrounded by Russians, it wouldn't end well. He had to get Kiara away from here. But how? She is bleeding out under his hands!

He quickly scans the map of the area they're in and realises that the nearest acceptable street is not that far away.

"We need to leave!" he says, already thinking of the best way to move her.

"What?!"

"Come on!"

He pulls her up, and noticing that she can't walk, carries her in bridal style the maybe hundred metres.

He puts her to the ground in a small pathway next to the street and realises with fear (fear? Where did that come from?) that she is pale, so pale.

"Помагите, пожалуста, помагите **!** " he shouts in Russian, and luckily, a young man seems to hear.

"о - о боже..." his voice is shaking, and Sherlock deduces instantly that he is a kid from uni, studying maths.

"просто вызовите скорую **!"**  Sherlock is furious, and crouches down next to Kiara again, pressing down on her wound. She groans because of the pain and lets her own fingers go slack.

"Why did you do that?" Sherlock growls out, curious and angry at the same time.

"It would have killed you," Kiara's voice is barely more than a whisper.

"And now you are nearly dead!"

"Sherlock – you do," she coughs once, harshly, then continues, "know that you are getting emotional?"

Sherlock frowns, no he didn't, emotional, how...?

"The percentage that I am going to die are quite low, even here. My can pull some strings now, don't you think?" Her voice gets more and more quiet during the sentence, and Sherlock can see her weariness and exhaustion.

"Stay awake, the ambulance will be here soon. Stay awake!" He growls the last two words, hoping to make her listen.

"Yes, Sh'lock..." She mumbles, and then her eyes fall shut.

"Kiara! Kiara!" He says her name, shouts her name, until the ambulance arrives, and when he drives with her, as her brother, he doesn't stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Алексей, они за нами следовали = Alexei, they were following us!
> 
> Проститутка - конечно, они всё слышали = The prostitute. Yeah, of course! They listened
> 
> Du brauchst die mehr als ich! Pass auf! = You need it more than I do! Watch out!
> 
> Помагите, пожалуста, помагите = Help! Please, help
> 
> о - о боже = Oh - Oh my god...
> 
> просто вызовите скорую = Just call an ambulance


	28. The Caller

"Hey, weirdo!" Melissandre looks up from her lonely lunchtable and in the direction of the call and instantly spots the boy coming towards her.

"What dod you want, Josh?" She keeps her voice polite but cold, hoping to keep him away for today. The bullying stopped, Josh hadn't forgotten Kiara's lesson. Yet. But anyway, Melissandre would be out of the university in a few months, so who cares?

"Have you seen your friend lately? Tiny?" This is surprising. Why should Josh want anything from her? It wasn't him who had been hurt by her, but he did witness it all.

"Kiara? No, why?"

"Can you give me her number?" Mel can only look at him and remembers to close her mouth after barely a second, but answering is hard for a second.

"You – want her number?"

Josh shrugs.

"Yeah, well, she's hot," he says casually.

"No! Just, no. She's seventeen!" Josh looks like he wants to say something else, but Melissandre shakes her head once more.

"Just go away, Josh!" He looks a little disappointed, but leaves Mel to her own thoughts.

It was true, she hadn't spoken to Kiara since their fight, which was nearly two weeks ago. She still remembers Kiara's strictly controlled face when she had left the café and now she felt guilty. Who cares about parents? Hers aren't people she is proud of, but she couldn't change anything about them and so tries to be accepted despite her parents.

And Kiara's father – well, of course he was a criminal mastermind, and had probably killed very many people, not to mention the fact that Kiara obviously loves her father and admires him, but still, he wasn't Kiara's fault. And even though James Moriarty was a ruthless psychopath, Kiara isn't one. She might be a bit crazy and slightly mentally unstable, but she is a good person inside.

Mel had realised this a few days ago, two days after their fight, actually. She hadn't dared to send Kiara a text though, or call her until two days ago, and Kiara wasn't answering.

Mel sighs and decides to try once more. Getting up she grips her empty plate and glass and puts them away and then hurries to her room.

* * *

It's exactly the same as she left it, and she is quite happy about it. They hadn't bothered her too much after Kiara came, but she is still an outcast. She doesn't mind though; it is another thing she is grateful for. She does owe Kiara quite a lot now.

* * *

Mel texts her friend twice and calls her once, but she doesn't get an answer for twenty minutes, so she has nearly given up when her phone rings.

The screen says Kiara, so she hurries to answer the call, even though she has no idea what to say.

"Hey Kiara, I-" She starts but is interrupted by a man's voice.

"Who are you and why do you keep trying to contact Kiara Moriarty?" The voice is calm, cold and makes Mel want to hide, but this is her chance to get Kiara to answer, so she swallows.

"My name is Melissandre Baudelaire?" She is intimidated by this man, somehow she makes the answer sound like a question, and curses herself instantly.

"Miss Baudelaire, why do you keep trying to contact Kiara Moriarty?" The voice is still smooth, but there is an undertone, a dangerous hint that creeps her out.

"Erm, she is my friend – I wanted to know whether she is okay." This time her voice sounds stronger, more confident, so she tries to use that confidence.

"Who are  _you,_ anyway?"

"I am her friend – one of the two she has, so who are you really?"

This triggers a memory, didn't Kiara tell her about a friend a few weeks ago?

"Are you the friend who was in hospital not long ago?"

"What do you want from Kiara and why hasn't she mentioned you?" The man ignores her question entirely and Mel sighs.

"We had a fight two weeks ago and I wanted to talk to her about it." The man doesn't say anything for two seconds, and when he does, his voice is definitely sharper.

"Was this fight on the seventh of August, by any chance?" This is strange. This is very strange, how could he know?

"I think so – sorry, how did you-?" Once again she is interrupted, by him, but now the polite calmness is gone.

"I will send a car for you. It will bring you her. But if you dare to hurt her ever again, you will, lets say, regret it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." Melissandre whispers, she didn't know Kiara had so intimidating friends.

"The car will be there in five minutes, get in. I expect to see you soon." The voice is sharp now, but still collected.

"But-" A click is audible and the call disconnects. "-you don't know where I live." Mel says into the empty room.


	29. Mr My Holmes, I presume?

"Mr Holmes is expecting you, Miss." The driver holds the door open for her, and Melissandre can't help but be suspicious.

"How do I know who you are?" A smile appears on the kind old face of the man, a genuine one.

"Do you think I would be driving this car otherwise?" He is right. The car looks ridiculously expensive, it's not exactly what you'd call flashy, but it has this absolute elegance which would make Melissandre's father's car look cheap.

And he is dressed immaculate as well, the suit being tailor-made, high quality. After years of being surrounded with such you learn to recognize quality, even though Mel escaped that life two years ago.

"How do I know who 'Mr Holmes' is? He could be a creep who somehow had Kiara's phone." Even as she is saying it she doesn't believe it. Maybe it is foolish to trust an old man, but Mel can defend herself. At least a bit.

"He says to tell you My." It takes a second to understand what he is on about, until she remembers both the conversation with Kiara as well as the one with the apparently called My Holmes.

* * *

The drive is about ten minutes long, during which Mel has a quite interesting conversation with Thomas, the driver. He knows a lot about management, some of his knowledge is old and long updated, but other parts are interesting and new.

When they stop in front of a hospital instead of a house or a block of flats, Mel's rather good mood vanishes instantly.

"Thomas? What is going on?"

The driver looks sad for a moment, then forces a smile and gets out of the car to open the door for her.

"You'll see, come on Miss."

* * *

He guides her up through the hospital towards a room in the top story, and stops five metres in front of it. Just in front of the door is a man in his forties, with dark-ginger hair which is perfectly in place, just like his suit, complete with tie, waistcoat and pocketwatch.

"Miss Baudelaire." He doesn't ask, he states her name and this makes her feel small and irritates her at the same time. At the same time footsteps start behind Mel and when she turns around she sees Thomas leaving. It makes her feel insecure, but she decides to keep going and not cower away.

"Mr My Holmes, I presume?" Her voice is just as cool and polite as she wants it to be and she is grateful for her elocution lessons.

"Mycroft Holmes."

She has to suppress a smile. Why would Kiara give this stuck-up man a nick-name?

"Miss Baudelaire, I have the need to warn you. Kiara is currently asleep, so we do have some time. As previously stated, if you hurt her in any way, I won't be happy about it. And her other friend won't be either, we are not people you want to cross. This is your one chance to apologize, if you mess this up you won't be seeing her again, understood?" Mel feels the need to swallow, but she doesn't, she doesn't want to seem frightened.

"I understand, Mr Holmes. May I go in, now?" She straightens, and looks him straight in his eyes. He nods curtly and goes inside the room, holding the door open for her.

Kiara is only visible because of her red hair. She is pale otherwise, blending in with the pillow and the blanket. Mel rushes towards her, shocked to see her friend so helpless and small, connected to an IV and a heart-rate-monitor and all kinds of equipment she doesn't understand.

Kiara looks calm and peaceful, but her sparkling energy is gone for the moment. He cheeks are slightly sunken and the shades under her eyes are quite visible as well. Her friend is still beautiful though, even though she doesn't seem to be seventeen, maybe sixteen or fifteen right now.

"What happened?" Mel turns around and asks Mr Holmes who is standing near the door and is watching her every move.

"She was in Russia and was stabbed. That was three days ago, she isn't injured too badly, but they are keeping her sedated quite a lot to help her heal. She'll be waking up soon, she was already awake a few hours ago." Mel's eyes widen with every word.

"She was stabbed? Why? How? Russia?" She isn't getting any of this. What was Kiara doing in Russia? Why would she be stabbed?

"I can't tell you I'm afraid. Confidentiality. She won't either, so don't ask her about it." Mel nods and settles into the chair, trying to find a more comfortable position.

* * *

Kiara does indeed wake up, approximately two hours later, but it takes at least ten minutes until she is lucid enough to understand what's going on. Mr Holmes isn't in the room anymore, he left for a few minutes to do "work" as he called it, so Mel was alone with Kiara.

"Mel – what are you doing here?" She speaks quietly and slightly slurred, but not angry, probably because of the drugs still in her system.

"Hey Kiara. I wanted to apologize and then your lovely friend brought me here."

"Apologize?"

"You know – our fight. I'm sorry, it was just a btit shocking to have it confirmed, even though in hindsight I should have known. I mean, if I were to be judged because of my father, everybody would run away."

"'s fine. Wait, friend? What did he look like?" She looks worried at that, and Mel feels a bit shocked. What is going on?

"Tall, ginger-ish hair, fine suit? Said his name was Mycroft Holmes." Kiara visibly relaxes at that.

"Oh yes, sure, I'm just – you know, forget it." Mel narrows her eyes but decides to drop the matter. It seems to upset her friend, after all.

Suddenly the door opens again, not slowly like Mr Holmes opened it, but with a bang.

"Kiara - " The man striding in is wearing a black suit with a purple shirt, his hair is dark and short, but the ends curl a tiny bit. Before Mel can see anything else, Kiara speaks, or rather shouts.

"OUT! Now, leave!" The man's eyes flit over Kiara and then over Mel, and he turns around just as quickly and abruptly as he came in.

"Later." He calls in a light tenor before slamming the door behind him.


	30. Melissandre and Mycroft?

"Kiara, who was that? Why did you shout at him?" I fight against the fog in my head, trying to find a good excuse for my behaviour. She might have recognized him already, but as I don't know, I can't risk her finding out.

"I – That's my-" I break off when I realise that I don't know what to say. My friend? Then I'd introduce them and she'd see him. Somebody who I dislike? Why would he come into my room then, and I can't risk Mel getting angry and trying to talk to him either.

"You can't tell anyone that you have ever seen him, do you understand? You mustn't!" It's the only thing I can come up with, I hate to do the guilt trip, but it might keep her quiet.

"Please, you said we are friends, so don't tell anyone. Forget you have ever seen him." I am breathing way too quickly, and heart-rate is going crazy, but I am not able to calm down right now.

"Kiara, what is going on?" Mel sounds confused and suspicious, but then again, who wouldn't?

"Just promise you won't say anything about him." Mel frowns at me, and I bite my lip in anticipation. She'd say no. It's not the fact that I'm worried about her telling the public, I'm worried about the threads finding out.

Before she can say anything, there's a light knock on the door and Mycroft comes in. Judging by his face he knows what happened, and he walks towards my bed hurriedly, ignoring Mel completely.

I reach up and pull him down, hug him, and bring my lips very close to his ears.

"What are we going to tell her?" I whisper as he pulls me closer, as if he'd be relieved to see me awake. I know it's just an act for Mel, but it still feels nice.

"I'll remove her for the time you'll need to destroy the rest of the network. She will be free to go afterwards." he answers, but as soon as he's finished, I shake my head.

"You can't, she is my friend." Suddenly Mel gasps and Mycroft and I break apart. Following her gaze I see she is looking at My's hands and neck, where the scars and here and there some plasters are still visible. She looks horrified, and Mycroft stiffens.

"Mr Holmes, is that why-?" This somehow sparks an idea, and I interrupt her. I don't want her to cause a flashback or a bout of paranoia, even though they are quite rare now.

"Mel, you finish studying in december, don't you?" She looks surprised, but I don't wait for her to say anything.

"Mycroft is in need of a PA, and you've studied almost exactly what he does – I mean, he's only a minor in the British Government, but it might be a start?" She looks astonished now, but when I see Mycroft's face I fear that I made a mistake.

"Miss Baudelaire, would you excuse us for a moment?" His voice is frosty, and Mel looks slightly worried, but when I nod she leaves the room.

"What are you doing, Kiara?" He sounds angry and I've lived long enough with them to recognize the masterfully hidden fear.

"My, she is perfect as a PA! She studies Management and Politics, what else do you want?" I try to convince him that this is a good idea, because it does make sense.

"I don't need a PA." He is speaking with a barely controlled calm voice now, and I know that I have to convince him quickly before he completely shuts me out.

"Yes you do. You are exhausted, and this helps us twice! Firstly, you don't have to tell her everything, even minors in the Government have PAs, right? And besides, it would keep her quiet. Right now, she knows about you, she knows about me, and she knows about Sherlock, even if she hasn't recognized him so far, she knows we are hiding something and she is clever. You could let her believe you are just an unimportant politician." Mycroft is still breathing heavily, but I can see he understands ad begrudgingly accepts the logic.

"You'll be the one to introduce her to Sherlock, though."

* * *

Mel reacts quite well to the threats she receives from us. To the warning that Sherlock could kill her and "make sure the crime was never discovered" if she ever told anyone, she had only rolled her eyes.

"Who do I have to tell it to?" She is right. She doesn't really have friends and who would believe her anyway?

We don't mention that we have looked through her whole back story. We know almost as much about her now as she does. It would probably creep her out and it would blow Mycroft's Minor-Position-In-The-Government-Persona.

Sherlock isn't happy about our decision to tell her he's alive, but he behaves. Maybe it's because of the necessity to not scare her off after she has seen him. Maybe, even though that is just wishful thinking from me, he has actually listened to me for once.

Mel had heard of Sherlock before, and even though she hadn't been sure what to believe about him, she had not thought the newspapers were telling the real story.

A few minutes later Sherlock and I are sitting next to each other, or rather, I am lying in my bed, and he is sitting in the chair, when Mel and Mycroft walk out of the room, talking about politics and the government. I had tuned out seconds after they started and Sherlock just laughed at me.

When our laughter has calmed down, I finally say what I wanted to say for some time.

"Thank you, Sherlock." He looks at me and raises his brow, for once he doesn't understand what I mean.

"For what?" He says quietly, as if he's not used to people telling him that in an honest voice.

"For Russia." Mycroft told me when it was just in my room about the time I was out. Apparently Sherlock had carried me to a bigger, safer street after I had been stabbed, something I couldn't remember. He had also managed to get me to a hospital and then, with Mycroft's help, to London in less than a day.

My wound was not very dangerous. The only thing which made the doctors keep me sedated was the blood-loss. I have a few stitches now, but everything should be healed within a few weeks.

Sherlock's lips twitch, as if he wants to smile, but he suppresses it and nods.

"Can you give me my phone?" He picks up my iPhone from the nightstand, and I turn it on. It needs to be charged soon, but I still have one bar left.

I flick through the apps till I reach the surveillance of 221B. Watson is not there, but it looks a lot better than four months ago when Sherlock and I had used the surveillance the last time.

It's cleaner and more organised, most of Sherlock's stuff is put away, but his chair still stands, and the skull on the mantelpiece and the pocketknife are still there.

Sherlock's room his dark. There is a bit of dust, but it's obvious that someone cleans it every month or so. Boxes with the stuff which used to be in the living-room are in here, they are in the corner of the room.

The bed is made, but it is the one thing that looks like it has been untouched for more than a year.

More than a year. Father has been dead for more than a year. Sherlock has been "dead" for more than a year. So much has changed in that time, and I somehow can't help but feel grateful for it. Yes, I wish Father would be alive, but I am also happy that I have met Sherlock and Mycroft.

The thoughts are painful so I concentrate once more on the picture of Sherlock's room. It doesn't look like it Sherlock was in there only seconds ago anymore. The jacket from the chair is gone, and the wardrobe is closed. The book from his nightstand is gone and the little pictureframe turned over.

I smile sadly and wish suddenly that it's all over, that all the threads are gone and Moran is dead, even though Sherlock will be with John then. And that hurts, but seeing this does as well.

Sherlock seems to be in his mind-palace, but when I nudge him and hold out the iPhone he takes it. A smile flits over his face when he sees the improvement of the flat.

How much he longs to go home and to John is very visible on his face and I turn away from him.

He doesn't notice the tear that runs across my face and onto the pillow.


	31. In The Basement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half of this chapter contains graphic violence. I don't know how triggering it might be, so just be careful. If you want to skip it, the gist of it will be in the end notes.
> 
> Warnings: Graphic descriptions of Anthea torturing Mycroft.

The laptop-screen is bright and makes Sherlock's face look harsher, drawing deep shadows.

"Kiara, Mycroft?" He looks up to us. While we had been doing other research, he had been working on getting access to Anthea's laptop.

Both of us move to stand behind him, and watch as he opens the first document. It contains a long list of dates and names, none of which I recognize, but when I look at Mycroft, I can see his grim expression. Sherlock looks though the other documents as well, most of the containing data I can't work with, but finally he opens a video-file. It takes me a second to realise what is going on. The screen is split in four images, all showing the same room, but from different angles. A chair is in the middle, metal. In hindsight I should have known what this video is about, but I don't realise it, until Anthea and another man carry Mycroft inside. When they put him in the chair and Anthea crouches down to tie him to the chair, I can feel Mycroft stiffening even more than before next to me and then turn, fleeing the room.

Without a second thought I follow him, after I put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and push down slightly.  _I've got this one._

* * *

Mycroft is outside, approximately five metres down the hall, with his back to me and his head bowed slightly. I can see his clenched fists and the tense muscles in his neck immediately; the three white scars stand out even more.

"My." My voice is very quiet, so I swallow and try again, while I am walking towards him "My, are you okay?"

"Fine. Perfectly fine, Kiara." His voice is clipped and cold, obviously to scare me off, but the thing that hurts me, even if just a bit, is the fact that he thinks he has to hide his vulnerability from me, after all I have seen.

I walk around him so I can look into his eyes and then I slowly raise my hand and touch his cheek. He closes his eyes for a moment and I can see how he is desperately trying to get his usual mask back on. I wait, but don't remove my hand until he straightens and raises his head.

"You can watch the video-file. All of it, get all the information you need. But don't tell me a single word about it!" He hisses the last words and I nod, slightly worried. What happened in there to make him this emotional?

Mycroft puts his hand on my shoulder and tightens his grip for a moment, then steps out of my way.

"Go on, watch it. I'll be downstairs."

I smile sadly and nod again.

"I'll be there in two hours, My." The video won't be over then, probably, but still, I want to look after him then. He swallows and walks away.

* * *

**Okay people, here's the cut.**

* * *

When I return to the room, I see that Sherlock waited for me, surprisingly. He looks at me questioningly, wondering what happened and whether we should watch on, but I only nod. He turns around and we look at the video again.

_The screen is split in four images, all showing the same room, but from different angles. A chair is in the middle, metal. Anthea and another man carry Mycroft inside. After they put him in the chair and Anthea crouches down to tie him to the chair, the other man straightens and looks at her._

" _Anything else, Miss?" His voice is strained, not used to talk to a woman like this. He is new, new in Anthea's command._

" _That's all, you may leave now." Her voice is harsh and without the dream-like quality that was so typical for her._

 _While the man is leaving the basement, the thread takes a black cloth out of her pocket and pulls Holmes' head back to put it around it._ I can hear Sherlock growl slightly at this, I don't think he is even aware that he is doing it, but I have half a mind to join him.  _Before finally leaving, she looks around the room once more, especially at the security cameras, checking whether they are still there. Then she closes the door behind her._ Sherlock doesn't fast-forward the video, even though almost nothing is happening. So we have to wait about ten minutes until something changes.  _So far the only movement was Mycroft breathing. Now he seems to be waking up though, to a trained eye the slight head-movement indicating his oncoming awareness, but also the realisation of being captured, and then the attempt to cover it. After about fifteen seconds, the cameras behind Mycroft on the left and the right side show the movement of his fingers, carefully gathering data abound the leather-ties around his wrists._ I cannot help but stare at his fingers right now. They are still whole, still working as they should. Only slightly plump, but better than bloody. How I wish now that I could somehow change everything.  _He stills again, and after about six minutes, Anthea comes in again. There is something over her mouth, a little microphone as well as speakers, to disguise her voice. She moves different than she used to, more cat-like, more dangerous. Walking around her prisoner a few times, she inspects him. He doesn't look bothered in the slightest, obviously he has no idea who his capturer is. Not yet, anyway. When she has seen enough, she grabs the hair of the elder Holmes and pulls his hair back, just like nearly twenty minutes ago. The man doesn't jump or show any of his surprise, not even when she presses the blade of her knife to his throat._

" _Mycroft Holmes." She finally speaks, concerned only for a blink of an eye that her mouth-piece might not be working. When it does, she relaxes, if only barely._

" _I didn't think I'd live to see the day when you wouldn't be in control of everything. I guess the world is full of surprises." she taunts, but Mycroft doesn't react._ At this my anger grows. She worked for My for so long, does it not mean anything? Not even a bit of respect for the man who sacrifices so much to keep the country up and running?  _From what is visible of her face, she is slightly annoyed now. What fun is it to mock, if the victim isn't bothered?_

" _Okay. Where is your brother?" Mycroft doesn't answer, once again, but this time the thread reacts. She takes the knife away from her victim's throat and cuts from his right shoulder to the middle of his spine. For the first time, Mycroft does react, even if it is only his body betraying him. He tries to escape the knife, but Anthea holds him by his hair. Even without that, the leather-ties that bind his to the chair would be enough to stop him from moving to much._

" _Where is your brother?" The man clenches his teeth only for a moment, but then speaks._

" _He is dead," his voice shakes, almost impossible to hear, but the slight tremor is there._ This is the point when I realise something. Why did Anthea ask where Sherlock was? She knew, didn't she? And even if she didn't she could have called him or just waited for us to come back, we wouldn't have doubted her at all. So why did she ask that? Just for fun? To confuse Mycroft?  _The only response to Mycroft's statement is a cut at the back of his left arm. This time he doesn't move at all, but clearly visible from the cameras in front of Mycroft, his face twitches a tiny bit._

We wait and watch for ten more minutes Anthea cutting the skin of her Ex-boss. Mycroft is silent and stoic, but I can see his calm mask wavering.  _After two more minutes, and a vicious cut to the back of his neck, the elder Holmes breaks the silence between the questions for the first time since he spoke, letting out a small moan of pain. The smile is clearly visible on the thread's face, even with her mouth-piece, and she continues._

_After twenty minutes, Mycroft's breathing is harsh, and his calm mask is completely gone. The first cut to his hands had been horrible, as soon as he felt the cold metal on his wrist, he had tried to move them away. She had cut them anyway, more than once, more than twice, more than five times. After another five minutes, he just stops trying to move his hands away. His hands are curled into fists, but when she moves the knife to his palms where his fingernails dig into his skin, and continues the movement, threatening to cut his fingers, he slowly opens them, letting her cut his palms as well, his hands almost perfectly steady. Almost, the tremor is just starting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So:  
> Anthea tortures Mycroft by cutting him with a knife. Mycroft has no idea who is hurting him. Sherlock and Kiara watch the video, and Kiara wonders why Anthea tortured him: Anthea never asked for information she couldn't have gotten by simply asking the three.


	32. The Shop Around The Corner

_After nearly an hour she finally stops. The tension in Mycroft's hands lessens minimally, and the tiny sigh doesn't escape Anthea's notice. She smiles and wipes the knife once in a piece of fabric. It is red afterwards, just like the back of the shirt of her ex-boss._

Sherlock looks furious when I glance at him through my fingers. I have long since hidden my face behind my hands, scared of what I might see.

It's scary how Anthea just keeps asking and hurting him, and I simply can't see the point in it. Why should she ask him something so pointless? Why was she making it so easy for us to find them? If she had wanted to kill us all, it would have been much easier to do without us suspecting anything. She could have drugged us during dinner and then killed us in our sleep, she could have just shot us, one after each other, she had hundreds of possibilities. Why did she risk everything, especially all the information she got from Mycroft for such a badly thought out plan?

Sherlock keeps watching with a grim expression, but I feel the bile rising up. It's been less than two hours, but I can understand why Mycroft didn't want to watch it.

"Sherlock, I – I'll see - " Sherlock glances up at me, obviously not really listening, but then his eyes focus and flit over my face and body.

"I won't say anything." He says calmly and looks into my eyes for a moment, dipping his head a bit. Somehow we both know what we don't say – that he'll be watching the rest of it alone.

* * *

Mycroft is in his office. He's sitting behind his desk, typing away on the computer, his movements completely controlled and calm. His mask is back on, and I am not fooled by it for one second. Mycroft's mask is the face he shows to the public, to everyone – except me, and Sherlock. I have seen him at his most vulnerable, but it seems he needs this particular control right now.

Walking around him and touching his shoulder lightly, I reach the small kettle and fill it water.

"Tea or coffee?" I ask, flicking the switch. I ignore the fact that both of us aren't as okay as I am acting, him because of memories and me because of what I've just seen.

"Tea, please." He looks up and I can see the smile in his eyes.

* * *

_Two and a half months later, Joseph Daunt's deputy has been located and killed by agents, Daunt himself escaped. Henry Scottson's (another thread) deputy has been caught._

* * *

He is dead. Finally. All of the big threads are dead or in prison, except for Moran and Scottson and Joseph Daunt, but he isn't as powerful as he once was anymore. Hurt and probably scared he's somewhere in Asia, says Mycroft. Scottson's second in command died a few days ago, and I am glad for the small break Sherlock and I always take after we took out a thread or a second in command. We need it, we need the time to recover from injuries and to talk to Mycroft about the next step of the plan. Sherlock is already in the little flat we got here in Ireland and I am in a little shop. We need food – Sherlock needs cigarettes and nicotine patches and I need chocolate. I am very careful when it comes to Sherlock and cigarettes, but we have a deal that he's only allowed to smoke in our little breaks. That's one of the reasons why he doesn't just ignore the break and keeps working. So far he did what he promised, so I am happy to buy some for him. I'm seventeen now, but on my fake passport it says twenty, so I don't have any problems.

My phone rings and I get it out of my pocket. It says anonymous number on the display, so it's Sherlock. There are only two people who might call me these days, and that are Sherlock and Mycroft, but Sherlock keeps his number anonymous so it won't be recognized.

"Hey Sherlock, what's up?" I ask, not really concentrating on the phone.

"Nearly, Miss Moriarty, but I don't mind," says a male voice and I freeze. This is not Sherlock and this is not Mycroft.

"Who are you?" I hiss the words, but quietly, so no one will notice.

"I'm Henry Scottson, my dear. And if you want your friend to live, you'll be quiet now, and take your shopping out of the shop with you, and into the little alley around the corner." He says calmly, and I nearly freeze again.

"What have you done to Sherlock? Is he alright? God, I swear, if you hurt him-" I start threatening him, I can't help myself, but he just chuckles.

"Miss Moriarty, didn't I just tell you to shut up? And I have no idea whether Mr Holmes is okay or not, because it's not him I'm talking about. I'm talking about Miss Adler." He says and I gasp quietly. By now I'm out of the shop and in the alley, but there is no one.

"Prove it," I say and expect him to step out of the shadows, but he doesn't.

"No, I'm not in the alley, if you think that. I just wanted you there so no one will notice. And okay, I will." There is some movement on the other line, and then I can hear Irene.

"Kiara, Kiara, what's going on? Do you know this man?" She asks, and I am shocked how different she sounds. She doesn't sound like her normal, imposing self, but scared and small.

"Yes, Irene, I do, and don't worry, I'll get you out of there," I tell her and then there's even more movement.

"Do you believe me now, Miss Moriarty?" asks Scottson in a smug voice.

"What do you want?" I snarl, and he laughs.

"Oh my dear, I want many things. But from you? If you want to get Miss Adler free, you need to do one thing. I want you to shoot Sherlock Holmes."


	33. I'm sorry, John.

The bell of the church chimes eight times, but Sherlock doesn't care. He doesn't care what time it is or who might see him. Well, who of the ordinary, boring people might see him rushing gracelessly towards the warehouse just round the corner of the street he's in. Because they don't know, they'll never know, and even though they might be curious about what he's doing, they won't learn anything new so they will forget it eventually. Just like the media forgot him. Nearly forgot him. His fake suicide is now one and a half years ago, and with Kiara's help he managed to nearly destroy Moriarty's web. Sherlock still doesn't really understand why Kiara helped him because she was Moriarty's daughter and loved the consulting criminal with all her heart while Sherlock was one of the reasons the man killed himself, but again, he doesn't care about that. What he cares about, is Kiara. And John, mind, but John thinks he's dead. So in the moment she had to do. In the last nine months he had learned to trust her. She wanted the same as him, though for different reasons. She was witty and intelligent, and didn't annoy him too much.

Sherlock smiles when he remembers how Kiara was so annoyed with him and his brother Mycroft when his brother had finally cleared Sherlock's name. She had insisted on telling his brother right from the start, and after she had threatened to leave the deal he had agreed. And then the media had gone up again and told everyone that they had believed in him all the time. Sherlock didn't go out for a month, scared that someone might recognise him from all the pictures, and then because of the cocaine overdose. Kiara had hated it.

And she is the reason he is rushing to the warehouse now. She had called him, telling him to come quickly, she had found another piece of the web and she was in trouble. And nearly like with John, his mind becomes emotional when she is in trouble. It isn't that he has any romantic feelings for her, she is just a very good friend.

Sherlock reaches the door of the warehouse and takes out his gun. It is one of Mycroft's, and even though he hates to admit it, it is good. When he pushes the door, it swings open slowly. In front of him is a small room. It is rather thin and long, and he somehow knows that Kiara is behind the wall. The door to the next room is closed, but not locked.

The detective pushes his open and notices several things instantly. This warehouse is clean. There's nothing in it, and the dust is pretty thick. There are no signs of anyone but Kiara's footsteps, small clean dots in all the dust. And thirdly, Kiara is standing ten metres away from him, pointing with the little handgun she stole from Sherlock  _at_  Sherlock. At his stomach, to be correct.

"Kiara, what...?" Sherlock starts asking, but he can't end the sentence. Kiara pulls the trigger and he gasps when he feels the searing pain. It his hot, red-white-orange-painful, and the detective's legs give out. He falls to his knees, then to his side.

And even though his mind is clouded by pain, he deduces several things. Kiara usually has a very good aim, but she didn't even hit the major organs – probably – and no big arteries, as far as he can tell. Didn't she just ask him yesterday about them? If she had wanted to, she must have planned for him to die a very painful death. Does that mean she wants to draw it out even more or didn't want to kill him at all?

And then the reality hits him. Kiara. His Kiara, his second-best friend who had once nearly died for him, had shot him. Nobody except her and him knows where he is, not even Mycroft. Nobody will enter this warehouse for a long time, judging by the dust, so he will die here. There was nothing to stop that.

Fear curses through him, and anger and betrayal. John would never know that he had been, in fact, alive. He would not always waste away just like he did a few months ago, but he would never know. And why did Kiara do that? He had thought they were friends, at least companions. Sherlock doesn't know a lot about relationships of any kind, but even without John's help he knows that companions or friends would do this to each other.

"Well... The great Sherlock Holmes, at the ground at last." Kiara sneers, without her usual teasing tone, and Sherlock suddenly sees that she has come closer and closer, until she is now nearly standing next to him and looking down at him.

"Kiara, what...? Why?" Sherlock gasps, but Kiara just laughs.

"It was about time. Did you really think I have forgiven you for what you did to Father? No, I did not. You were very helpful in destroying Moran, but I think I can do the rest without you." She uses her foot to turn him from his side to his back. Sherlock only groans because of the pain.

"Great Sherlock Holmes does have feelings after all! Maybe not really feelings, more like the ability to bleed and die, but still, close enough. Anyway, Johnny-boy will be very sad when I tell him you were alive. But he won't be for long, don't worry..." Her words, her threats, give Sherlock energy again.

"No! Not... Not John, please..." He croaks, and he knows he is begging, but he doesn't care. Kiara mustn't hurt John, that was what the detective had jumped for, hadn't he? Kiara just laughs.

"I'll see you around, Sherlock Holmes... or not." She says and goes away, towards the door.

"Kiara... Please..." Sherlock whispers, but she is gone.

He can't believe this happened. But it did, and the puddle of the blood he's lying in, his own blood, is getting bigger. The detective can't be bothered to put pressure on the wound. It won't help because no one's there to help him any further, and it will only increase the pain. If he dies, he wants to die as quick as possible. The puddle is growing.

_I'm sorry, John._


	34. You Can Choose

"What? No, I won't!" I nearly shout the words into the phone, but Scottson laughs again.

"You can choose. Either Mr Holmes or Miss Adler."

I know that I need to think. I need time, because I can't kill Sherlock and I can't let Irene die. If I don't kill Sherlock, Irene dies. If I kill Sherlock, well, then Sherlock dies.

 _But he didn't say anything about killing, did he? He said you were to_ shoot _Sherlock, not to kill him,_ says a little voice in my head, and suddenly I know what I will do.

"Okay. Okay, I'll shoot Sherlock, and you will let Irene go." I whisper and try to ignore the guilt.

"She will be in the church. You have forty-eight hours." Scottson says and ends the call.

I lean against the wall and slide down until I sit on the ground. My phone says it's four pm. Today is Tuesday, so on Thursday, four pm, I will have shot Sherlock. I fight back the tears and start thinking.

* * *

I am home at eight o'clock. Sherlock doesn't really notice, he's on the couch and in his mind-palace. I am glad he is, otherwise he would have noticed something is wrong. I put the newspapers, sweets and games away and then leave to have a shower. The hot water touches my cold skin and I sigh when my cramped muscles relax.

My plan is risky. I need some knowledge from Sherlock for it, and it already feels like betrayal to ask him for something like this, for something so it will be easier to shoot him. And there are very many variables in my plan, things I cannot control. But I have to do this, to save Sherlock as well as Irene.

Two years ago I would have laughed at a person saying that I'd risk Irene's life for Sherlock's. My life for Sherlock's. But it's true, and he is one of the most important persons in my life now. It's not that I am in love with him, he is just one of my best friends. Weird, when I think of it, considering who Father was.

I turn the shower off, dry myself clean and put sleeping clothes on. They are nothing fancy, a purple tank-top and black bottoms, but for some reason I like them more than any of my others.

Sherlock is still in his mind-palace when I go into his room. I giggle when I see him like this because it is a rare sight to see him like this for so long. I wonder what he's thinking about. The time goes by as I get a book, sit down in a armchair and watch Sherlock.

It's dark when Sherlock breathes in sharply. I don't mind, I know it's the shock of being in the real world again, so I smile at him.

"Coffee?" I ask and he nods. We never drink tea. Sherlock doesn't because of Watson and I don't because of Sherlock.

While I'm waiting for the kettle to boil, I gather my thoughts and try to think of a good way to ask Sherlock. The best way would probably be the easiest, just asking him. He wouldn't mind, it wouldn't take more than two seconds to show me, and he knows my jumping train of thought. We're quite alike in that way. We'd be thinking of one thing in one second and of a completely different thing in another.

The coffee is ready, so I take the two mugs and put one on the small table next to Sherlock.

I ask him about organs in the human body, about arteries, trying to sound as I always do, curious, but not all too much bothered if I don't get an answer. It seems to work. The detective sits up and starts explaining, once even touching my stomach to make his point clear. I try to remember it all, as it certainly is a lot to take in, but in the end, I know pretty well what to do. He smiles and sits back, sipping his coffee.

I nod at him, and enjoy the rest of the evening with him. I know that whatever happens tomorrow, Sherlock's and my friendship might not recover. It would be hard for me, but I know that I deserve it. And so I enjoy these last hours, drinking in his presence, remembering his face, his deep voice, how he talks, how he moves... I'm trying to burn him into my brain, so that I will not forget him. And I won't.

* * *

I look around the small warehouse I chose to use as our 'meeting-place'. It is perfect, easily accessible and close to a hospital. My phone alarm tells me it's quarter to eight pm, and I call Sherlock. That's another good part, I know that Sherlock will need about ten minutes to get here, so I have time to organise everything.

"Kiara?" Sherlock asks annoyed, but I think I can also hear a tiny trace of worry there. He always says I shouldn't call him, it supposedly slowed down his thinking and was annoying, but he knows that I will only call him if something is wrong.

"Sh- Sherlock, please, we made a mistake." I cry and I don't even have to fake it all. My heart is breaking because of what I am going to do, and it helps and hurts at the same time to hear his voice.

"Kiara, what's wrong?" He asks, and now he's definitely worried.

"We forgot one big thread. I found him. Or rather, he found me. Please, Sherlock, hurry!" My voice breaks when I say his name, and I hope he misunderstands it as he is supposed to do.

"Kiara, where are you? Tell me where you are!" Sherlock says loudly and I stutter out the address. Sherlock doesn't say anything any more besides to "hold on", and disconnects.

After a glance at my watch I call Mycroft. It's five to eight, Sherlock will be here in about five minutes. Mycroft answers on the second ring, I called a number for emergencies that only Sherlock and I have.

"My, please, you need to come quickly!" I nearly shout into the phone, glad that the tears are still running.

"Kiara? What's going on?" Mycroft sound worried instantly.

"Sherlock, he's been shot, I don't know how long he can hold on, I-" I babble and I know it, but it is enough to convince Mycroft that I'm in shock, conclusion, what I said is true.

"Where are you?" He interrupts me sharply, but I don't mind. I quickly tell him the address and have to repeat it twice because I mumble and speak so quickly.

"Okay, Kiara, I'll be there in ten minutes. Keep calm, we'll be there soon."

"Please, Mycroft, hurry!" I cry and disconnect.

I have ten seconds to muse about the irony that I said nearly the same sentence to both of the Holmes, with one difference. One time to prepare for shooting Sherlock, one time to save him.


	35. I'll See You Around, Sherlock Holmes.

The bell of the church chimes eight times and I wipe my face. I'm pretty sure my face looks normal enough, if everything goes like in my plan, Sherlock won't have enough time to notice anything. Then the front-door slams and I lift my gun, the gun I stole from Sherlock nearly two years ago.

Sherlock's eyes widen with surprise when he sees me, pointing a gun at him, with no big thread anywhere threatening me.

"Kiara, what...?" He starts to ask, but I pull the trigger. The bullet that I dipped in a sedative tears through his side, hopefully not damaging anything too serious. Sherlock gasps and fall to his knees first, then on his side. The sedative seems to help. It's not enough to knock him out, just to blur his senses and make him stagger a bit. His eyes widen even more for a moment, then he squeezes them shut. He is in much pain, and it breaks my heart all over again. I walk over to him and force my voice into a sneer, "Well... The great Sherlock Holmes, at the ground at last."

"Kiara, what...? Why?" Sherlock gasps, and it hurts to see him on the floor like that, completely vulnerable. I want to cry, to fall down to my knees and put pressure on his wound, to tell him everything will be okay, but I mustn't. So I laugh cruelly and answer him in a way that will definitely hurt him.

"It was about time. Did you really think I have forgiven you for what you did to Father? No, I did not. You were very helpful in destroying Moran, but I think I can do the rest without you." I use my foot to turn him from his side to his back. Sherlock only groans because of the pain.

"Great Sherlock Holmes does have feelings after all! Maybe not really feelings, more like the ability to bleed and die, but still, close enough. Anyway, Johnny-boy will be very sad when I tell him you were alive. But he won't be for long, don't worry..." The words nearly get stuck in my throat, but Sherlock doesn't notice. I somehow wish he would.

"No! Not... Not John, please..." He begs, and again, I want to cry. But it is worse this time. Because he looks scared. Genuinely scared of me, not for himself, even though his blood is pooling around him and threatening to ruin my shoes, but for John. I don't know how many times a heart can break, but it seems I am learning it right now, as I just laugh. It is so hard, but when I remember Irene, I know that this was necessary.

"I'll see you around, Sherlock Holmes... or not." I say and start walking towards the door, but stop there.

"Kiara... Please..." Sherlock whispers and I don't answer. It is clear that he thinks I'm not there any more, and it is painful to see him like this. Broken, destroyed, vulnerable, begging,  _dying_. Where the heck is Mycroft? Blood is all around Sherlock, soaking through his coat and his suit underneath, and there comes more and more.

I take a picture of him to send to Scottson, and leave when I hear the sirens in the distance. Only when I am a few hundred meters away, I remember one vital thing. Sherlock hadn't done anything. He hadn't put pressure on his wound, probably thinking that he would die anyway.  _Hold on, you fool!_  I think and start walking towards the church again.

Tears are streaming down my face while I change the picture with my phone, just a tiny bit. I want to make it worse, so I make Sherlock a little bit paler and the puddle of blood he's lying in a bit bigger. I don't need to do much, because both are already really bad. Shuddering, I send the changed picture and delete it afterwards, but I keep the original picture as a reminder of what I had done.

* * *

Sherlock's POV:

Sherlock's vision is already dark and blurry when it happens, so he isn't sure whether it is an hallucination or not. The sirens have stopped, and there are three man, loading him onto a stretcher, hurting him, tying him down... It takes a bit until he realises who they are and what they are doing.

He tries to say Mycroft's name, to test whether the paramedics are from him, but out comes only a mumble. The paramedics seem to understand though, because only minutes later, Mycroft is there. And for that moment, Sherlock isn't a grown man any more. He is Lock, the little seven-year-old boy who holds his brother Myco's hand while they are giving Sherlock an injection.

"Myco... Stay – Please..." He begs and takes his brother's hand before he falls unconscious.

* * *

Kiara's POV:

Irene and I stand hand in hand in a small alleyway. It is slimy and disgusting, but I don't care at all, even though Irene does a bit. But she doesn't say anything, and I am grateful for that, because we are watching Sherlock. When I arrived at the church, she was there, shaken but okay, with a little message for me. 'Well done' it said on the piece of paper. I didn't destroy it, even though I want to, but it is a clue. Sherlock might be able to use it.  _If he survives,_  says the little voice, and I try to ignore it. The voice is right, even though I didn't hurt his main artery, he still lost a lot of blood.

Irene and I watch as the paramedics carry Sherlock out of the warehouse. He looks even worse now, and the paramedics are worried. They say something, but I don't hear it. Then one of them leaves Sherlock's side, and I want to kill him for it, but he only goes to Mycroft and leads him to Sherlock. By the look of Mycroft's face, Sherlock says something really bad, and when I see him taking Mycroft's hand, I understand. Sherlock, who always says he doesn't like his brother, is the young boy again, whose best friend was the older brother Mycroft.

Someone turns me around and hugs me, and it takes a few seconds to realise that it is Irene, and even more to notice the tears soaking her top.


	36. The Hospital

Mycroft calls me every day the following two weeks. I don't know what he knows, but I am still constantly on the run. Irene isn't with me, she's staying with one of her clients, because she says she isn't made for something like this, and I understand. It is easier this way. I steal what I need, and if I am caught, I run. I'm getting better and better at that. I also have another phone, a cheap one with neither a camera, any other fancy stuff or GPS, so it is harder for Mycroft to track me. My old phone is always off.

It is Wednesday, exactly two weeks after I shot Sherlock, and my new phone rings again. I know it is Mycroft, but this time I decide to answer.

"Mycroft." My voice is calm, but on the inside I'm shaking like a frightened child.

"Kiara! Where have you been? What have you done?" Mycroft is furious, but then again, he has every reason to be. I start running through the streets and get a cab, telling him to drive, to drive as far away as possible. I know Mycroft is tracking me, but I don't want to be caught.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft. How is he?" I ask.

"How dare you asking that? I will find you, Kiara, and when I do, you will be wishing you had never met Sherlock!" He threatens, and I disconnect. I knew this would be how our conversation would end, and I don't need to hear any more. I smile at the cabbie, and take out my  
I-phone. I hope Sherlock's phone is on, and I try tracking it. Sherlock and I installed it a few months ago, after the incident in Russia. And I am lucky. It is on, and tell me he isn't far away, in a small private hospital. Of course, Mycroft wouldn't let him stay with ordinary people. The cabbie only smiles when I tell him the address and turns.

* * *

Three hours later, I'm ready to go to Sherlock. The cab-ride cost me nearly all my money, as I don't dare getting any from my bank-account, but I managed to steal a scarf in a small shop, as to hide my face. It is nearly dark now, eight pm, and I stop for a second to admire the irony. Exactly two weeks ago, I shot Sherlock. Now I'm visiting him and hoping that he will at least understand, even if he doesn't forgive me.

The hospital is dark and quiet. I expected the front-door to be locked, but it isn't, so I go right in. Somehow, nobody sees me when I walk through the corridors after I took a quick look in the receptionist's computer. It was almost fun, hacking into something again, like I did when Father was still alive and then afterwards with Sherlock. His room is on the second floor and someone, maybe Mycroft, thought it would be funny to put him in room 221. I think it is tasteless. Sherlock misses Watson so much, and the number must remind him again and again.

The door has a small window, so I can look into the room. It is white, as I expected, and there are no cards and flowers, also expected. But he's got many books and his laptop, and something which looks like case files as well. The moon shines through a window on the bed and I can see Sherlock. He is pale, but then he always was, and looks mostly the same as I remember him from Tuesday two weeks ago. He's lying on the blanket, in his grey pyjamas, with his eyes closed, but something tells me he is awake.

With a last deep breath, I open the door and step in, but don't go any further.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" He asks calmly, without his usual bite in his voice when he talks to his brother. Well, how he talked to him before  _her_. Somehow this makes me happy. It means that maybe, just maybe, they will get along a bit better when all this is over.

"Sherlock." I say and he opens his eyes wide, shocked and surprised and, if I'm not mistaken, scared? He looks at me for a second and I just look back, not knowing what to say. Then he jumps out of the bed and is next to me in less than a second. For a moment I think he will hug me, but I scold myself for it a moment later. Of course he won't, I shot him, after all!

Instead he pushes me against the wall, with his arm against my throat. I choke, but he obviously doesn't care. He is surprisingly strong, but the wound wasn't as serious as it could have been.

"You!" He snarls, "What do you want, Moriarty?" It hurts that he is apparently ready to kill me, but that he calls me Moriarty hurts even more. He called me Kiara ever since I told him so nine months ago in the flat in Paris, and even though I still love Father, I know what it means to him when he puts me on the same step as Father.

"Please, Sherlock, let me explain," I croak, but he only glares.

"Why should I?" He hisses, and I can see how angry he is now. He is blazingly furious, enough to kill me without a second thought. And I know he will if I don't stop him. By the way he moves it is obvious that the wound is still hurting him, but I can't use that. If I want him to understand and forgive, I mustn't destroy the last bit of trust he might have.

"I don't know. I'm sorry," I whisper, but somehow he hears it. He loosens his hold around my neck, but doesn't let me go at first. The tears which were in my eyes since I entered the hospital start falling, and Sherlock seems to realise that I'm not faking them.

"Why should I believe anything you say?" asks Sherlock, but he lets go of my neck. My knees can't hold me any more, so I sink to the floor with my back to the wall and Sherlock towering over me.

"I'm sorry." I whisper. Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, but in that moment the door opens.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice is worried, probably because he couldn't see Sherlock through the window in the door. Then he sees Sherlock, and then me. We are both looking at him, me on the floor and Sherlock standing before me and somehow all of us are frozen for a second. Then Mycroft's eyes narrow. He pushes Sherlock out of the way, grabs me by the collar of the jacket I'm wearing and pulls me up. He is angry as well, but while Sherlock's anger is hot and wild, Mycroft's is usually as cold as ice. That doesn't stop him now, though.

"How dare you?" He shouts and shoves me against the wall. "How DARE you?" He shouts again, and this time his voice breaks.

His hand comes out of nowhere, and my cheek stings. He hits me again and again, and I duck my head and close my eyes in a vain attempt to protect myself. I don't realise at first that I am crying again and that my cheek is bleeding until Mycroft stops, obviously feeling the warm fluid on his palm, seeing the red above the white scars that litter his hands. This seems to kick him out of it, as he stops with a look of horror on his face. He lets go of me as if he burned himself, and I can't be bothered to stay up, so I slide down the wall to the floor again. Mycroft looks shocked. I never expected him to have something like this in him, but while I know that I deserve it and didn't exactly expect a warm greeting, Mycroft is looking at his tear- and bloodstained hand in horror. Sherlock puts a hand on his arm and Mycroft seems to calm a bit, then he looks at me again.

"Explain, Kiara, would you?" he asks and his voice shakes a bit. It is very unusual, so I look up at the Holmes brothers, really look at them and see hurt, betrayal, fear, tiredness. Both of them look down at me and I feel trapped. I know they won't do anything now, but their coldness scares me even more. Strangely, they look more alike than ever before now. Swallowing, I look down at my shoes again and start thinking. How can I tell them? How can I explain? I don't think Mycroft knows that Irene is still alive, but I will have to risk telling him. Sherlock definitely knows, and he saved her life once, so he might understand. Eventually I look back up.

"I'm sorry." I whisper, and when Mycroft opens his mouth to shout at me again, I shake my head and continue.

"I'm so sorry this all happened, and let me say this, Sherlock, I would shoot myself before I shot you. It is true now and it has been like that since we met in Paris."

"Why aren't you dead then?" Sherlock interrupts, and even though his comment hurts, I know how he means it.

"Because I didn't choose to shoot you. It wasn't my idea, it wasn't me. Scottson, he called me. In the little shop just around the corner..." It sounds pathetic in my ears, but I continue, and all I say is true, I leave nothing out and put nothing in.

"He had Irene. He proved that Irene was at his mercy and gave me an ultimatum. Forty-eight hours."

"And you chose Miss Adler." Sherlock states in a cool voice, but I can hear the pain in his voice. At the same time Mycroft speaks as well.

"Scottson? Irene Adler? She's dead!" He sounds confused now, and I can feel that he doesn't believe me.

"Henry Scottson, one of the threads. He is the last one, besides Moran and Daunt. And no, Irene isn't dead. Sherlock saved her from the terrorists. And before you ask why she means so much to me that I would shoot Sherlock, she's like a mother, a sister and a friend to me. It's hard to let someone like that be killed, you know?"

Mycroft just frowns about the information that Sherlock lied to him about Irene all this time and looks at the detective, but Sherlock shrugs. Somehow I have the urge to giggle.

"And no, Sherlock, I didn't. I couldn't do either, killing you or letting Irene die, so I went for the only possible solution. I organised entry to the warehouse. I asked you about the arteries and organs. I made the deal with Scottson that he would let Irene go if I sent him a picture of you, dead or dying. I called Mycroft minutes before you came, so an ambulance would be there soon enough, and then I called you. I didn't want to, Sherlock, it was one of the hardest things in my life. But I had a plan ready. I shot you instantly so you wouldn't have time to figure anything out and try to do something. With that I ensured that the shot would not definitely be a fatal one, and you would easily live long enough so that the paramedics could save you. And then came the hard part. I knew Scottson was probably watching me, so I couldn't help you or tell you why I did it. But I couldn't leave you alone. I didn't want to, and maybe you would have tried to move. I don't know what might have happened, so I stopped you. And the only way I could think of was to say all these things, but I didn't mean them, Sherlock, I really didn't!" My voice is cracking while I'm speaking and my face is shining with tears, but I don't hide it. I look up to Sherlock and hope he will see that I'm not lying with those sparkling grey-green eyes of his, but he keeps staring down at me and after a minute I lower my eyes.

"I'm sorry," I whisper again, but neither Sherlock nor Mycroft say anything for a while. Suddenly I hear some movement, and when I look up, I see the door closing.

Both Mycroft and Sherlock went out of the room and I am left sitting here. I don't move, I only lower my head again. It went better than I expected, but still. In my heart, there had been that hope that all would be well again, the hope, that Sherlock would forgive me just like that. Of course I knew that that hope had been only a highly improbable fantasy, but I wasn't able to suppress that hope.

Tears run down my face, mingling with the blood and dripping to the floor and on my clothes, staining them, but I don't care. I know it was the only thing I could have done, shooting Sherlock, but it still hurts and I don't want to think about it at all. And as the time passes, I fall asleep.


	37. Betrayal

" _No! Not... Not John, please..."_

" _Kiara... Please..."_

_Blood is everywhere, staining the grey coat, soaking through it – and it doesn't stop. The blood seeps out, and the puddle of blood reaches his hair, his face..._

_He scrunches it up in agony, and his desperate pleading gets more and more quiet, as the time passes, but Mycroft isn't coming, he promised, but he isn't, where is Mycroft?_

_Sherlock's pleas stop and his breathing is getting worse, he was laying here for some time. Too long, no ambulance is audible, Mycroft just isn't coming! And then, the bleeding stops, and the breathing stops, and the heart stops, and there is only silence. And the girl who is walking down the streets, walking towards a special church, doesn't know. She worries because she can't hear anything, but that's okay, because Mycroft is reliable. She doesn't know that she has killed her best friend. Her best friend whose body is now lying lifeless in the abandoned warehouse, left, forgotten, dead._

_And the blood turns from red to brown._

* * *

I wake up screaming with tears streaming down my face. The bleeding on my face has stopped, but the partly dried blood on the floor is brown and reminds me once again of my dream. Quick steps run towards the room where I am still sitting, and the doors fly open.

"Kiara? What - ?" Sherlock says loudly, but stops when he sees me on the floor. I can see the change in his eyes, from worry to confusion to something else I don't recognize, when he deduces that I am not being attacked.

He comes towards me and only belatedly I realise that he must have come running when he heard me scream, that he called me Kiara and not Moriarty. I don't get up though. I just sit there and look into his eyes as he crouches down in front of me. In his eyes I see myself, pale, red-rimmed eyes, miserable. After a few seconds I look down because I just can't look at him any more. Guilt washes through me once more, I had shot this brilliant, wonderful, amazing man, and here he is, slightly out of breath because he ran when I screamed.

His finger is warm when he touches me beneath my chin to make me look up.

"Kiara, are you okay?" His voice is warm and filled with concern, and I want so much to be his friend again, to be able to be the under-age girl once more and just hug him. To be able to tell him what happened, in my dream and in reality.

"Yes, I just had a dream, I'm sorry." I whisper, still not looking directly into his eyes. I don't know what to do or where to go from this. It's clear that Sherlock at least instinctively came when he thought I was in danger. But what about everything else? He won't trust me any more.

Mycroft is worse, though. Sherlock came, Mycroft didn't – and while Sherlock is (or was) my best friend, Mycroft felt different. More like a brother, someone who protected me and whom I could be there for if he needed me.

Strange how Sherlock and Mycroft seem like brothers to me, especially regarding who Father was. Maybe, and somehow it sounds right, it's because of who and how I am. I'm not normal. I'm not mentally stable, even though I am neither a psychopath or a socio-path I definitely have certain qualities of them – I simply copied them from Father and the people I met through him.

* * *

Sherlock watches his brother and Kiara critically. It's very unlike Kiara to be so quiet, so meek, so shy, but it's also unlike Mycroft to ignore logic.

Kiara did what had to be done. She didn't know what else to do, so she did the best she could do and managed to keep everyone alive. The chance of that happening was low, very low – Irene Adler would have most likely died in any scenario Sherlock or Mycroft would have thought of.

But for some reason, Mycroft acts the way he does, pushing Kiara away, keeping her away from him and trying to keep her away from Sherlock himself. And strangely, Sherlock knows why. Maybe it's because of his time with John and now Kiara, or because it could be looked at like a puzzle, he knows what's stopping Mycroft from forgiving her.

Mycroft's loneliness is practically in his job description. Anyone close to him is in permanent danger, and nobody wants to risk that. But Sherlock has his own enemies and knows how to protect himself. And now, the two other people Mycroft let in so far have betrayed him. Anthea completely, and Kiara had betrayed his trust – even though somehow she hadn't – but that were emotions. Illogical.

Sherlock watches how Kiara tentatively walks towards Mycroft's room when she wants to go to bed and knocks, knowing that Mycroft is inside. She looks unsure, a bit scared, and as if she really doesn't want to stand where she does. She is expecting Mycroft to decline, suddenly shoots through Sherlock's mind, she just doesn't want to shut that door if Mycroft does think differently.

Suddenly the door opens and Kiara takes a step backwards. What is Mycroft doing to scare her, Kiara Moriarty, so much?

"Stay away from this room, do you understand?" Mycroft's mask is slipping. His voice isn't clinical and polite, he all but hisses it in Kiara's face.

Eyes wide with fear and lips slightly parted, she nods and backs away. She doesn't notice Sherlock standing in his doorway, watching the exchange, as she passes the door, neither does he see the calculating look Sherlock shoots Mycroft.

* * *

_Everything is dark and presses onto his eyes, ears and nose. He feels like he is suffocating, but can't move an inch – can't move away from the sharp knife or the quiet whispers that slither through the darkness._

" _You're alone. You'll always be alone, Mycroft Holmes, everyone is leaving you. Because who would like your company? Who would be with you during your weakness and not use it?_

" _Sherlock hates you. You know he does, he has told you often enough. And Kiara has betrayed you as well."_

_He can suddenly feel something warm and sticky on his hands, and despite the darkness he knows that it's red; the DNA similar to his own._

" _She knew he would die. And I have betrayed you as well. See, who would want you?"_

* * *

Suddenly Mycroft can hear Kiara's voice, feels her hands on his shoulders.

"My, wake up, it's just a nightmare! Wake up!" He opens his eyes to look directly into her green ones. They are wide with concern and for a split second he remembers how she looked only hours before and feels guilty. Then the rest of his brain catches up.

He sits up and Kiara leans back to give him a bit of space, but he gets up completely. Her shoulder is warm, her freckled skin smooth under his touch.

"Get out. I told you not to come into this room!" He says sharply, cursing as his voice is rough and slightly shakey because of the nightmare, and pushes her out of the room.

"My, I -" She obviously wants to explain herself, worm herself into that room again, manipulate him again, but he stares down into her clear eyes coldly, hoping to make himself clear.

"My name is Mycroft, not some silly short version. Stay away from me!" He slams the door in her face and leans against it, fighting to repair his mask, and unconsciously listening for her to leave. She does so after a minute.


	38. I Will, Sherlock, I Will.

Mycroft continues to glare at me every time I speak to him. It is unnerving to see him this free with his emotions, even if it's just the one, I'm somehow used to it connected with Anthea. But now his anger and mistrust and hate is directed against me and I shy away from him. I don't talk to him unless absolutely necessary, I don't come close to him, I don't even look at him.

Sherlock isn't angry. After I went to the hospital and apologized he forgave me within a day. I hate how suddenly Mycroft is the emotional one. It used to be the other way round, it used to be Sherlock. Sherlock who was hurting because of his friend, Sherlock who was laughing with me, Sherlock who snorted with laughter when we were annoying Mycroft.

But now, after Anthea, it changed. I cannot fully hate her for it, as it made me grow closer to Mycroft, but now looking back, it tastes bittersweet. Mycroft shouldn't be haunted by emotions, or rather fear, shame, anger and hate, but be able to keep calm. He was getting a lot better before I shot Sherlock, but what if this has thrown him back? He does have more nightmares.

I hear him every night, once, twice, thrice. I wake up every night and want to go to his room, but I only dare to sit next to his door. Sleeping is impossible anyway, and like to imagine that it's helping him.

As much as I want to be angry at him about it, especially at night, I can't. He is right, after all, even though Sherlock told me, after the first night, in his awkward, offending way not to worry about it.

Without the tense atmosphere, one might almost mistake it to how it was before Smith and Stone. I'm in my room a lot, or in Sherlock's when we are researching together, and Mycroft in his study.

* * *

_My hands are shaking. I can hear Sherlock, he just opened the first door; he will be in here any second. Then the second door opens and he comes in, looking around, scanning the room for attackers, and the confusion is clear on his face as he realises that it's just me. Just me, who is pointing a gun at him._

" _Kiara, what is going on?" He asks, his voice concerned, slightly out of breath._

" _Sherlock..." My voice breaks, "I -"_

_The gun goes off. It isn't entirely unintentional, but to do it in that moment was. Sherlock just looks at me. Shock is clearly written on his face._

" _Kiara?" His voice is barely audible, as I stare at the bloodstain on his shirt, right in the centre. With my free hand I touch my stomach, in the same place the bloodstain is now. I can feel my blood, pulsing strongly, quickly through my body. My pulse is getting higher and higher, why do I feel so calm though? Or am I just numb?_

_I look up to Sherlock again, first to his shirt, where the stain is spreading rapidly, then to his eyes. They are wide with shock. Then Sherlock moves. As if in slow-motion, I can see him falling backwards. Slowly, gracefully, inaudible._

_My hands are shaking. Still shaking. And in that moment I realise what happened. My hands were shaking, so the gun went off. My hands were shaking, so I wasn't pointing exactly where I meant to. My hands were shaking. Are shaking._

_My body moves without my direct consent. It's not that I don't want to do what I'm doing, it's just that I never ordered my body to do it. First is the gun. It lands in the far end corner of the room. Second is the scarf I'm wearing. I wrap it together and rush towards Sherlock. He isn't moving very much. His eyes are closed, his breathing isn't steady._

_I press my scarf on the wound, trying to stop the blood. Within seconds my scarf is soaked and I take Sherlock's. From far away I can hear screaming. It takes a while to realise that it is actually me, screaming Sherlock's name, again and again, begging it to be a nightmare, begging him to open his eyes, begging him to tell me all will be fine, begging him to call me a sentimental fool._

_Sherlock opens his eyes slightly. He is clearly confused, why should I help him after I just shot him? What he doesn't realise that I missed the target, that I hit the wrong target._ Suspect must stay alive. De-synchronisation.  _Without warning these words float into my brain, I remember playing Assassin's Creed not long ago, and somehow I wish this was the same situation. But it isn't because this is real life and this is Sherlock who is dying under my hands, because of my hands, my shaking hands, not some stupid video-game._

" _Kiara, please... Don't – John – you mustn't..." He must have deduced that I was still working for Father. For Moran. For Scottson._

" _Kiara, please..." His deep baritone is rough, barely a whisper._

" _Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean – I never thought-" I stop. What can I say? He won't believe me. Why should he? I shot him, after all._

" _Scottson, he had Irene" Again, my body, my mouth does what it wants. Not that I mind. My body is clever. Certainly more clever than my brain right now._

" _A bargain – Your hands are shaking. Were shaking? I – John – Irene? Who – Kiara? Kiara?" He understands what happened. What I meant. Joy tries to fill my heart, but it is quelled by all the other emotions._

" _Sherlock, I'm here... It'll be fine, I promise. I'll look after – after John," It's the first time I call Dr Watson by his first name, but I know Sherlock needs it right now. And I also know that nothing will be fine. Because Sherlock is breathing his last breaths. The blood is everywhere, soaking his clothes, my clothes, my fingers are red, Sherlock's dark locks are even darker and wet with all the blood, blood is everywhere._

_And I know that, even if Mycroft and his paramedics came right this second, it would be too late. So I act calm over the numbness, tell him that all will be fine. Because for him, it might be. And dear god, if I meet him in hell when I die, god will be wondering what happened._

" _Tell him – I'm sorry," he whispers, and I can see strength and fear in his eyes._

" _I will, Sherlock, I will."_

_And then, the bleeding stops, and his breathing stops, and his heart stops, and there is only silence. I am left alone, holding him, crying, not even caring that this is not helping Irene because I killed Sherlock, something even Father had not succeeded in. My tears mix with his blood, and when Mycroft comes, mere minutes later, they have to pull me off Sherlock's body. It is taken away by the paramedics, but Mycroft and I just sit there, not being able to move._

_And the blood turns from red to brown._


	39. Fiery Armour

It's dark and the air is stuffy in his room when Mycroft finally manages to pull himself out of his nightmare. It's the second this night, and it was a bad one. He doesn't mind the ones when he's shouting – the only bad thing about them aside from the obvious fact is that Kiara will hear him. She doesn't come into his room any more, not since they came home and he told her clearly to stay out.

He can wake himself up when he's shouting. They don't last, he never reaches the end. Or rather, he is just pulled harshly out of it, and knows there would have been a lot more had he not woken up.

No, it's the ones where he can't move, can't make a sound, can't breathe which he hates so much. He dreams until the end, which usually is him dying or Sherlock.

Mycroft knows that Kiara is aware he had a normal nightmare this night. She always knows, she always hears, and when she had still slept in his room – Mycroft shakes his head to interrupt his train of thought. It's good that Kiara is further away from him, it's good that she is shutting herself off from him.

Memories flood his mind, pictures of Kiara waking him up at night; of Kiara with him in the hospital, after the events in the basement; Kiara in her room looking up to him standing in the doorway, smiling quickly and then going back to murdering somebody in her playstation game; Kiara with her cheeky, triumphant smile after she made a joke. Slowly, the pictures change. Kiara, lying on the floor, Stone on her, knife at Kiara's neck, Sherlock in the chair, screaming. Kiara, in the hospital bed after being stabbed. Kiara, standing in the warehouse, standing over Sherlock's bleeding form. The last one is just his imagination, he knows that, but it is still in front of his inner eye.

For the first time in his life, he is seriously letting emotions stump his judgement, and he knows it. He knows there is a grain of logic in Kiara's actions, in shooting Sherlock, but his emotions are telling him otherwise. His emotions are telling a story of betrayal, and now in hind-sight, he can see the symptoms for it in all his memories.

For the first time in his life, he lets his heart rule his head, knowingly, hating it, but not changing a thing about it.

The air suddenly seems too thick, the blackness too dark, so Mycroft gets up. He'll just take a quick walk, he tells himself, even though he knows he'll end up in his study, in front of his computer, but he doesn't want to admit that to himself. He knows he doesn't get enough sleep.

When he steps outside of his room, he finds something genuinely unexpected. Kiara is sitting next to his door, leaning against the wall, breathing deeply.

She is fast asleep, head resting on her forearms which she placed on her drawn-up knees, the red hair surrounding her face and shoulders and falling over her legs. It looks like an armour, wild, messy, a fiery protection.

He has half a mind to wake her. To shout at her, see her retreating again, eyes wide with fear. Beneath her fiery armour she looks small, and he wants to know whether he can break it.

Less than a second later he shakes his head in disgust. There they are. The emotions, fighting to be let out, trying to chip away the mask on Mycroft's features.

He sees her tired eyes during the days, the dark circles beneath them, the lack of grace with which she moves because she is so exhausted. He sees her quick looks towards him, sees the slight fear in her eyes, he sees her flinching away when he takes a step in her direction. He sees the effect it has on her.

He walks through the manor, to the room in which he used to study as a child. His textbooks are still there, in their perfect order, books about politics and management and he knows he could recite them all by heart, but he takes out one about the Weimar Republic. It's old, and there are some mistakes in it, and he has a better version just half a shelf away, but he has kept this one. He opens it and looks inside, quickly leafing to the twenty-fourth page. Sherlock's handwriting his stiff and scrawly, the pencil smudged, but he can still read the corrections Sherlock wrote.

It was Sherlock's birthday present to him, for his twelfth birthday, Sherlock had been five. It wasn't the fact that for the first time Sherlock had given him something besides a painting or a piece of music on his little violin, but the fact that he had bothered to learn about the Weimar Republic and correct the mistakes. In hind-sight, Mycroft suspects that Sherlock had picked the book for that exact reason, but it is still the nicest present he ever got. He doesn't get any nowadays, he doesn't trust the gift-baskets he receives, too many people hate him, but this, this is important.

Mycroft stays in the room for ten minutes, thinking, remembering, then decides it's time to go back to bed. When he arrives at his room, Kiara is gone, only a singe red hair betrays the fact that she was there.

* * *

For the first time in weeks, the atmosphere is not as tense as usual, but rather a concentrated silence. It is relaxing, not to feel Mycroft's distrust the whole time, but also very strange. There is a certain quality in the air, I'm not sure whether Sherlock or Mycroft can feel it, but I feel something similar to an itch, to a tickle. It is disconcerting how similar it is like it used to be and I miss it. But this is the better of two evils. At least both Irene and Sherlock are alive and well and I don't have to worry about Irene any more – as she promised to go to one of her clients and get proper security.

I try to concentrate on the screen in front of me, but my thoughts keep straying away. I am pretty sure Mycroft knows I slept next to his room. I didn't mean to, I was just so tired and fell asleep, but when I woke up, the door was open and Mycroft was gone. And since I hadn't heard anything, Mycroft must have left his room silently. He doesn't mention it, doesn't show it in the way he is behaving, as he hasn't talked to me since I woke him up from his nightmare and he told me to leave three weeks ago.

At least he doesn't say anything really mean to me, I try to make myself feel better, but it's not really working. The only thing he does is glare at me when I come too close to him.

And because I am so distracted, I am so surprised when I notice something very strange.

"Sherlock?" I think about calling Mycroft as well, but decide against it. If it is a true lead, then Sherlock will be able to read a lot more out of it, and he'll tell Mycroft.

"Hmm?"

"Can you – Can you come for a moment, I think I have found something..."

He steps behind the comfy chair I'm sitting in and I tilt the screen so he can see.

"From all the bank-accounts, somebody takes some money. I checked, from every big one – he takes more than ten-thousand twice, more than five-thousands four times. It's nothing compared to what is on the accounts, you could manage an entire, admittedly a small, country with the money Father had. Moran isn't as clever, he has less, has been careless with it, but it's still a huge amount.

Anyway, this person takes the money and transfers it to another account – sometimes another big one, sometimes a small, private one. I'm checking it right now, but from these accounts, the money goes to one account – or is collected from cash machines in London. He has been doing this for months, all in all I guess he has taken more than two hundred thousand pounds."

I look up to Sherlock who is staring into air with narrowed eyes, rapidly looking around. After a moment he snaps out of it and looks at the screen again.

"Mycroft?" He calls out, and I sigh quietly.

"I've listened," Mycroft answers and gets up, standing behind my chair as well. I can't help but cringe away, moving towards Sherlock's side slightly, trying to put some distance between Mycroft and me, and wait for both of them to say something, as they are both staring at the screen. After a second, Mycroft leans down and scrolls down the list. I am ultra aware of his hand near mine, and don't move, but he just keeps looking.

"Could it be – Do you think it might be Daunt?" I ask, trying to understand what the Holmes-brothers are thinking.

"I mean, we thought before he was somewhere else, or in Russia, and he never was. What if it was his deputy we were tracking, not him?"

Mycroft looks down at me, and for the first time in ages, our eyes meet without any anger in his.

"I don't know. But if it's true, and it sounds very likely, we are in great danger. An –  _She_  helped him escape our grasp once, so she might have communicated with him more than just that. Who knows how much he knows now. We'll need to be careful."

He straightens up suddenly, then swiftly walks to his computer again and sits down in front of it.

"I'll check through the money-transfers again."

I swallow the retort I want to give, try to hide that I understood the hidden insult.


	40. Open Eyes

The wealth and power visible in the house might intimidate other people, but not him. It's not that he himself lives in such luxury, but there is something he needs to do and he doesn't hesitate to go through it.

The security had cost him a few minutes – more than he had planned. More than once the alarm had nearly gone off, and he curses her for her incomplete information. Then again, the information is more than five months old – and they know about him. Not enough, mind, but a bit.

But all in all he is nearly disappointed by how easy it was to get in. It is practically careless, as if they wanted him to intrude.

The layout is the same as she described, he racks his brain for her exact descriptions, and carefully goes up a staircase. The carpet muffles his already quiet steps so he is as good as inaudible, his gloves stop any fingerprints from staying on the rail.

The girl's door is slightly ajar, only barely, but enough to make it easy to open. God, why is everything so easy? He knows it's not a trap, he can hear quiet movements in the room next to the girl's, obviously one of the brothers. From the room slightly further down the corridor he can hear whispers and moans, together with the creaking of the bed he knows the person is having a nightmare. The other brother, then, he'll have to be careful. In the moment he's safe as the man is making enough noises to distract, but as soon as he wakes up that will change, especially as the man is likely to get up.

The door doesn't creak when he pushes it open slowly and once more he smiles about the luxury. They wouldn't let a door creak in this house, would they?

Inside it isn't as dark as expected, but a lot messier. DVDs, CDs, games and books, as well as clothes are everywhere in the room, making it harder to navigate. Well – the one time he met the girl her father had already said she was a whirlwind.

It was and still is strange to imagine the powerful man with a daughter,  _caring_  for a daughter. He certainly seemed to, even though he had been very strict the one time the intruder had seen them both together, and the girl had looked at her father with love shining in her eyes.

He is careful not to step on anything, if everything goes to plan it wouldn't matter if he destroyed the whole room, nobody besides the police would care, but right now, it would make too much noise. The moon shining through the window is very helpful, it is nearly full moon, and the light makes a stark contrast to the places where the opened curtains block the light.

The girl in the bed is sleeping peacefully, her red hair messy around her head on the pillow, very dark because of the unusual lighting.

She is beautiful in her own, strange way, and looks a lot different than the girl in his memory. Granted, that one meeting had been eight years ago, but she is quite grown up now. Going through all that shit does that to one, the intruder muses, looking around in the room.

She might have been a brilliant leader of her father's network. She would have been the leader, and he would have been loyal – but now everything is different. And he knows he has to cut all her little opportunities away, in one single act.

There is a heavy lamp next to her on the night-stand, a dangerous weapon if wielded in the right hands, so he steps closer to take it off the table. He'd have at least a concussion if not worse if she hit him with it.

He knows what he has to do, and how to do it, but he steps back once more, to the middle of the room, and breathes in deeply, closing his eyes, steeling himself for the chaos that is likely to erupt in a second.

Opening his eyes again, he looks back to the bed. Directly into Kiara Moriarty's open, focused eyes.

* * *

I wake up when I hear quiet steps and the nearly inaudible whisper of clothes in my room. Instantly alert and tense, I check through the possibilities. It can't be Mycroft, he wouldn't come into my room, or he would at least knock. Would have knocked, when he still talked to me.

Sherlock wouldn't have bothered being quiet, he'd just burst in and demand whatever he wanted. The staff only partly lives in the manor, and they never come into the rooms when we are in it, just the butler or a called maid would do so, but certainly not at night. Conclusion, it's somebody else. And "somebody else" sounds far too suspicious for my liking.

I open my eyes, but don't move yet, hoping to be able to see who it is without alerting the intruder that I'm awake.

The man is standing in the middle of the room, turned away slightly, but I can see his closed eyes and hear his deliberate breaths. When he opens his eyes and looks at me, I stare back.

He freezes for a moment, then moves towards me. I know he's too quick so I can't just roll off the bed on the other side, I'm caught by the blanket, and he's a grown man, a strong grown man, who won't have any troubles when he is using gravity to his advantage as well.

I do the only possible thing in the moment. I draw a quick breath and scream.

I scream as loud as I can, "Sherlock!" and "Help!" and then he's by my side. I know it's useless, but I try to fight him anyway, but my tired body is quickly subdued by him. He kneels on the bed, rather over me and holds me down like Stone did, but his knees are on my biceps. I have barely a moment to breathe once more until he clamps his left hand over my nose and mouth. I can't breathe, can't say anything, but it gets worse when he uses his right to press down on my neck.

He doesn't do it the brute, usual, stupid way, but his fingers find the veins in my neck within moments and interrupts the blood-flow.

The pain forces tears to my eyes and I struggle uselessly, the world already greying.

* * *

Mycroft is awake. He heard Kiara scream, probably just another nightmare. She has more of them now than ever, and he can feel a slight flutter of guilt. Yes, she had betrayed them, but he made it extra hard for him. There are some sounds coming from Kiara's room, probably Sherlock helping her after the nightmare, but after a few seconds it goes silent again.

Mycroft is lying in his bed, staring up to the ceiling. His work is harder than usual, but Melissandre is helping a lot – even though she only does the minimal, rather unimportant stuff. He is behind, the next week needs to be spend working, doing his actual job instead of searching for threads.

A loud crash pulls him out of his thoughts and he sits up. That's unusual, Kiara usually calms down after a minute. It has been two since she screamed.

"Mycroft! Mycroft!" Suddenly another voice breaks the silence, Sherlock sounds strained and angry, but also scared. What is going on?

"Sherlock?" He calls back, already getting up and hurrying towards the doors leading to Sherlock's and Kiara's room.

"Mycroft!" The shout comes from Kiara's room, and Mycroft hurries even more. What the hell is going on?

He pushes the door open and flicks on the lights in a second, eyes flitting around to take in what's happening in the room.

Sherlock is on the floor, but getting up slowly, unsteadily, a body at his feet. Mycroft can see the rise and fall of the chest of the unknown man, and the blood on his temple. Unconscious, obviously.

But his eyes are drawn to the bed. He takes a step into the room to see around the mess of the blanket and pillow, and looks directly into Kiara's unseeing, open eyes.


	41. Numb

_He takes a step into the room to see around the mess of the blanket and pillow, and looks directly into Kiara's unseeing, open eyes._

Mycroft steps back, trying to rationalize what he just saw. He blinks once, then looks towards Kiara again, then at Sherlock, then at Kiara.

Sherlock is standing fully by now, he shakes his head once, tentatively taking a step towards the bed, to test his balance, then rushing towards Kiara.

"Mycroft. Get the paramedics!" he calls out sharply, already gathering Kiara in his arms. She is just limp, her head lolling around, and Mycroft just hears a loud rushing sound.

Kiara's gone, killed by an assassin, probably Daunt. Mycroft recognizes his face from the profile they had.

Sherlock is putting Kiara on the floor, mindful of her head, catching it just before it hits the carpet. It might be soft, but still it would be bad to let her hit her head. Mycroft watches numbly as his brother quickly, efficiently, but not hurriedly checks for a pulse. It's obvious that he doesn't find one, even Mycroft could have told him that from his position two metres away from his brother, but there had been a spark of hope. Mycroft's mind is being torn in two, on the one hand being completely numb and not-thinking, on the other hand going overdrive – but he can't think of a useful thing to do. He watches his brother stroking a line between Kiara's breasts with his fingers, pressing down her shirt, but has no idea what his brother his doing.

Sherlock starts doing the compressions, breathing harshly and counting out loud, but when he reaches ten, he calls out.

"Mycroft, ambulance, now!" He doesn't stop the compressions, and starts counting again as soon as he stops talking, but he has pulled Mycroft out of his reverie. The elder Holmes can see now why Sherlock is counting out loud. It keeps most of his thoughts on the actual CPR and away from anything else.

Quickly turning around, he pulls out his phone and calls his special team of paramedics. He has two teams, well-trained, highly paid, only in the service of him and the royal family. They are used to being pulled out of sleep, used to acting quickly without asking questions, used to the threats to their existence so they won't tell anything they have seen, at all. The secret of Sherlock being alive is safe with them – they know since the incident in the basement.

Later on he will berate himself for his emotional babbling, but right now, he is happy that they understand.

"Eight minutes", they say.

"Five." is Mycroft's only answer.

When he returns to Kiara's room, Sherlock is just straightening up again, after the two resuscitating breaths.

He is already breathing heavily, a slight sheen of sweat visible on his neck, but he keeps the rhythm. There is a certain confidence in his movements and Mycroft can't help but think of how he got it. Was is with John? Or did he expect something like this?

"Check the intruder." Sherlock grinds out, a determined anger in his voice, and Mycroft is happy that it's not directed against him. Sherlock will not accept a no right now, nor will he accept the finality of Kiara's death.

Mycroft wonders whether he'll have to at a certain point. He hopes he won't have to, that the paramedics will be there, and just follows his brother's orders. Sherlock is in a better state of mind right now, as much as Mycroft dislikes it, god knows why, and he's right. Daunt waking up now could lead to a catastrophe.

Daunt's temple is bleeding sluggishly, the blood around the wound is starting to dry. There is some blood on the lamp on the floor, and he can only guess that Sherlock hit him with it in their fight. He is grateful that Sherlock's hand was the one to reach it, not Daunt.

The man is still out cold, and doesn't look like he'll wake up any time soon, but he couldn't just stay here. He could ask Thomas to – no. There are some things he needs to do himself, even if it means he can't stay.

Daunt is unsurprisingly very heavy when he drags him to the bedpost and drops him there. There should be something useful in the closet, aren't girls like that? Scarves and shawls and – there. Taking two long, sturdy looking ones that look like they have never been used, he ties Daunt to the bed and with the other one the man's legs together.

Sherlock is still doing the CPR, his breathing even more audible, but his face doesn't show the exertion. There is just determination and anger in his eyes, in the thin line of his mouth, in the lines on his forehead.

He looks up for a second but doesn't interrupt the compressions, and Mycroft nods. They don't have to worry about the intruder right now.

"Can you -" he leans down to give Kiara the resuscitating breaths, Mycroft watches her chest rise and fall, but the fact that it isn't because of her own accord turns the good thing bad. "- check for a pulse?" Sherlock continues as he starts with the compressions again. Mycroft counts with him, then reaches up and carefully presses his fingers to her neck.

He can't feel a pulse, and it's strange to touch her like this. While she is not only not aware of it, but also not feeling it at all. When it's just her shell he's touching, not her.

Sitting back he watches his brother doing the breaths. It looks like traitorous hope, seeing her chest rise and fall, looking like she is alive, if it weren't for – reaching up he closes Kiara's eyes. It feels horrible, like they have given up already, but it's better than her just staring into the air.

The paramedics obviously took his words seriously, they are there in four minutes. It takes another four minutes to get Kiara to the ambulance, and to ready the defibrillator. Kiara is still not breathing, the exact opposite to Sherlock, who is leaning against the door of the ambulance, trying to catch his breath, the sweat on his face and neck already cooling.

Mycroft stays where he is, standing behind the ambulance, so he can look directly at Kiara. Her body spasms because of the electricity. His mind is still numb.


	42. Sleep Deprivation

They keep her sedated for a day to control the swelling and check the scans for brain damage.

Brain damage. Mycroft can't stop himself hating these two words, they taste foul on his tongue, even though he rationally knows that they are just letters and don't care whether he hates them or not.

Brain damage. Highly unlikely, there's nothing on the scans, but they'll have to wait for her to wake up, the doctors said. Sherlock had done well, the CPR had saved her life, even if he had cracked two of her ribs. Cracked, not broken. Mycroft feels he has never been so relieved.

It's curious, he muses, how this girl, showing socio-pathic and psychopathic tendencies, being the daughter of one of the most dangerous criminals of the world, had wormed her way into their lives.

Sherlock and he don't do sentiment. Caring is not an advantage, he tries telling himself, but he knows it's too late now. He knew since the ambulance took off, Sherlock with them, Mycroft staying home to take care of Daunt.

Leaving home ten minutes after the ambulance showed Sherlock exactly what he felt, that he felt at all, but he couldn't stop himself.

He feels stupid now, and god, it is annoying. Not being able to concentrate, feeling numb – it had helped for five of the ten minutes, until reality crashed in. Kiara was being transported to the hospital, her heart not beating – or did it?

Mycroft remembers the pictures flashing in front of his face, Kiara who was looking at him, scared, shying away from him since they came home from the hospital, well, even before that. Kiara, sleeping outside his room, trying to make him feel better. Kiara's open, empty eyes looking at him.

He can see Kiara's point now. The logic behind her plan of shooting Sherlock was unflappable, even though it might have been better to go to Mycroft to it. On the other hand, she tried to keep them all safe, and everything considered, her age, her mental state, the things on risk, she had done surprisingly well.

He remembers the regret, that hateful feeling breaking through his shell, almost like the worry for Sherlock, on the ride to the hospital only hours ago. The feeling of shame, of guilt, that Kiara died because he had been blinded by emotions. Because, had he forgiven her for it, had she slept in his room, Daunt wouldn't have got her, would he? Wouldn't have had the chance to kill her.

She is breathing steadily now, if a little roughly. Her throat is not really swollen, Daunt did it efficiently, just interrupting the blood flow from the brain back to the heart so she didn't get enough oxygen.

When he thinks back, he can see why he felt that way, why he had been so against Kiara. But, and even though it's sentiment, he embraces it just this once, he thinks Kiara dying has snapped him out of it. He, who feels himself above all emotion, couldn't help the shuddering, relieved sigh when he heard Kiara was alive minutes after he entered the hospital. Didn't care that it was sentiment which forced him to sit down shakily on a chair.

The thought that Kiara might have died and not waken up without him, Mycroft, apologising, seems horrible and he is happy he is able to escape that.

Mycroft looks down at her sleeping face and can't stop the self-hate he usually keeps hidden away in far corner of his mind from rising up. Now, only shortly after her death and being sedated, she looks more peaceful than the weeks before.

* * *

The first thing I notice is the pain in my chest. Quickly after it come a sore throat, a very fuzzy head and the feeling of rough cotton against my skin. My eyes won't budge, won't open to the light, so I ignore the quiet beeping and let myself be pulled down into nothingness again.

The next time I'm not really awake. It's rather that I'm alert, I'm conscious of a dark muddled haze surrounding me, and I can hear a low rumbling, followed by a slightly higher rumble. Voices? I don't know, so I just stay still, keep floating, listening to the noise which is strangely calming to me.

The third time I become alert I fight. I try to claw the floaty dust around me away, rip the darkness, use all my force of will to open my eyes.

Everything is blurry. Waiting for a few minutes to regain strength, I open my other eye as well and look at the whiteness over me. It looks like it's a bit away, about two metres, and slowly it gets clearer. The ceiling is plain white, not even a crack, and looks very new. I trace the corners with my gaze, finding a childish interest in it, until I notice the breathing next to me.

It takes a lot to simply turn my head, more than it should, more than it used to, but I succeed and see Mycroft. His suit has creases, his hair is not as pristine as it usually is, and he has his face in his hands. He looks tired, exhausted, and I feel concern rising up.

"My?" I try to say, but it comes out as a barely audible whisper. My throat is dry.

He looks up, almost unbelievingly, directly at me. It's been a long time since he did that, without any disdain.

"Kiara, you're awake!" He says, and sighs once. How sleep-deprived is he to speak so nicely to me? To sound so relieved?

I can feel my eyelids flutter and I fall back into oblivion.


	43. She's Awake

The white of the bedsheets make her even paler than usual, her red hair a stark contrast, Melissandre muses. It isn't how she planned to spend her New Year's Eve, sitting next to Kiara's hospital bed, waiting for her friend to wake up. She isn't sedated anymore, just sleeping, her breaths change every few minutes from calm and deep to shallow and fast ones.

Melissandre looks at her watch and sighs. Five in the afternoon, she'd have to go to her parents soon, the obligatory dinner. It was torture every year, but at least she had been able to escape the Christmas dinner this time.

The door clicks and Sherlock enters. It still feels strange, being in one room with the detective, whose pale eyes seem to see her deepest soul every time he looks at her.

Sometimes she doesn't know why Kiara likes him. He's rude, to both Kiara, Mel herself and the staff of the hospital, arrogant, and cold.

But sometimes, rarely, she can also see the side Kiara must see. The little twitch of his mouth when he thinks something is amusing, his smirk, when Kiara laughs about something he did or said, the concern he shows when she is hurt.

Sherlock nods at Melissandre who smiles quickly as a response and gets up. Sherlock is there if Kiara wakes up and Mel knows that she really needs to leave.

"Tell me when she wakes up, okay?" She raises her eyebrow, hoping he'll comply. Mycroft had only told her about Kiara hours after it happened – of course, she could understand how stressed he must have been, but still, it would have been nice.

Sherlock nods once more and plops down in the chair she just left. Mel smiles once more and leaves.

* * *

"You feel guilty, don't you? After all this time. Why?" Her voice is slightly rough, but even, and Sherlock realises that she must have been awake for some minutes. He turns towards her and checks her over, taking in her tired eyes and the purple marks on her neck, and then looks back to the white door, which had been closed by Mycroft only minutes ago. He had left after checking in quickly, giving Sherlock a good view of the back of his neck and his hands.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock prides himself in his even voice, in the calm, almost boredom it displayed.

Her mouth twitches slightly and for a moment he wonders whether he should have tried asking her how she feels. But no, she'd look through that within seconds as well, he just isn't that social.

"You couldn't have prevented it, Sherlock. None of us knew about Anthea's real -" She pulls him out of his musings, but he can't listen to her. She's so understanding, he made a mistake, he shouldn't get understanding.

"I should have seen it, Kiara! The clues were there, the clues were everywhere!"

"Mycroft didn't see it, I didn't see it. She was clever, Sherlock, and she knew us. She knew we wouldnt suspect her!"

He shoves his mask, his protector, in front of himself again. Clenching his jaw, he closes his eyes for less than a second, shutting the hateful emotions away in his mind-palace, even though he knows the thick wooden door won't stand for long – he just needs some time, needs the few minutes the door can give him.

"That is why sentiment is dangerous, Kiara. It hides the truth from us, makes us want to believe any and every lie."

"Yet you care for Dr Watson." Her voice is calm, too understanding.

"And sometimes I wish I wouldn't!" He raises his voice, and then curses himself mentally. He's not exactly helping the door right now.

"But you only said sometimes. Caring isn't always bad, Sherlock. Don't blame yourself too much for what happened to Mycroft. He doesn't blame you and neither do I, if you want to, you can start blaming me."

"You didn't do anything wrong – well, not with Anthea." He watches her smile slightly as she understands his horrible attempt at a joke.

"I could have seen it as well. You forget, I lived with criminals most of my life, am a criminal myself, and might have heard her name some day or another. She must have brilliant, being in that position for so long and besides, she probably worked with Father – I believe she might even have helped him plan your meeting on the rooftop."

Sherlock narrows his eyes a bit, but then shakes his head and relaxes. Kiara hasn't changed his mind, but he has a few more minutes peace because of the door.

Kiara pushes her blanket of her hip, she is already rather sitting than lying down, and pushes the fabric of her pyjama-trousers slightly down so her tattoo is visible.

"Caring is an advantage." Sherlock looks at the elegant writing,  _I believe in Sherlock Holmes,_  and then quickly leaves the room.

* * *

When he enters again, the nurses and doctors are already nearly finished. Kiara looks tired, even though she has slept a lot, and is rather compliant, hoping to get it over with quickly.  
Pulling the chair from next to her bed slightly further away and sitting down, he pulls his phone out and ignores the protests of the hospital staff. It doesn't matter if one person uses a phone, it only gets problematic if twenty persons used their phones, he knows.  
Only minutes later the doctors and nurses are gone, and Kiara looks at him expectantly.

"Who did you text?" her voice much stronger than before.

He holds up the phone so she can read the message he sent to Melissandre: She's awake.

 


	44. New Year's Eve

The ride home is awkward and tense, but the prospect of being there is better than New Year's Eve in a hospital. The doctors released me with less fuss than expected, probably because there is almost no swelling on my neck anymore, and because Sherlock kept annoying them. Mycroft stayed out of my room most of the times and I have no idea what to make of that.

Why did he look and sound so relieved and guilty when I wake up? Why did he not mind that I called him My by accident, still sleepy? Or was it just a dream?

I sit in the front of the car, next to Thomas. I didn't want to be too close to Mycroft, and I still don't, but somehow I am not so sure about what's happening anymore. Why is Mycroft so distanced, so far away? It is better than the three weeks before, but I wonder what is happening in that big head of his. He might be angry at me, might distrust me and suspect bad but I still care for him. I still feel like he is my older brother.

And what is with Sherlock and Mycroft? I don't understand the looks they are exchanging, the few times I saw Mycroft in the hospital and now in the mirror of the car. They are calculating and cold, but is there a smirk on Sherlock's face? When I see a blink of gratitude in Mycroft's eyes I stop trusting mine.

* * *

Around ten o'clock I realise that we don't have any firework, at least not as far as I know, and neither Sherlock nor Mycroft are sentimental. Remembering that last year I didn't have any either, I try to not be too disappointed, but for some reason I am. Last year I had a reason. Last year I had been occupied because of Father's death and then because of training again. Then again, the excuse that I died yesterday is just as waterproof.

I don't know why I do it or how I do it, but ten minutes before midnight I am sitting on the roof of the manor. The tiles are cold and wet, but only slightly slippery, and the dangerous places with the moss and leaves are clearly visible – the moon makes everything else shine, they are the dark spots. My jacket keeps my trousers dry as my legs dangle of the edge. I'm sitting at the highest point, holding on to a stone-decoration, looking out over London.

Surprisingly, the night is cold and clear and dry, not even mist lingering about, just some small wafts over the Thames, illuminated by the lights of the London Eye.

I can nearly see our house from here, Father's and mine. Or now probably Moran's, even though I doubt he really lives in it. It feels like decades since I saw Father the last time, a lot longer than the one and a half years it really has been. I'm nearly eighteen now, and then I had been just sixteen. The thought hurts.

The first firework pulls me out of my thoughts, the red and white lights lightening up the sky. They are early by eight minutes, that's not watches being wrong, that's just eagerness. I like to imagine it was a child who wanted it, maybe a little girl who begged her father to light them earlier, because how would she ever be able to survive eight minutes? Eight minutes were an age.

I did that until I was ten. After that I was too grown-up for that, I always told myself, old enough so I could wait those long eight minutes.

Slowly but surely, the other fireworks start. There is one unique one, a shape I know, the colour very familiar to me. Maybe it's really Andy and David, the direction would be right. On the other hand, why would they still live there? The idea is comforting, though.

In the same moment the big fireworks, the official ones, start, I take out my gun and start shooting the air.  _Sherlock, Mycroft, Melissandre. Andy, David, Father._  Only a second later I have reloaded and throw the fifty-pence piece in the air. The black letters are barely visible, showing the sign I use for Moran,  _Mn_ , before my bullet shoots through it.

I watch it fly away from me, hurled through the air by the sheer force of the bullet, disappearing somewhere in the dark.

The fireworks illuminate the city, green, pink, red, blue, yellow, white, orange in the black sky. It is blue when I leave.

* * *

I don't sleep after that. A strange sense of calm has filled me, almost numbness, but somehow I am still too unsettled for sleep. Finally I decide to sit down in Mycroft's study, in the armchair I always sit in. I can't bring myself to care that he might not like it, I am researching after all, I think while I start my laptop. I guess I'm just in a too strange mindset right now.

After a while I take out my phone as well, just searching through the network-app. Another ten minutes pass until I realise I'm just looking through pictures. A lump in my throat appears when I find the picture of Father, my favourite, him looking at me, not the camera, his mouth open in the process of saying my name, his eyes twinkling with a smile.

Swallowing doesn't help, and somehow I start coughing and can't stop. The fact that my throat is still a bit raw because of Daunt doesn't help either.

My eyes water and I feel like I can't breathe, there suddenly are two clicks like the door opened and closed, but as there's no one in the room, I might as well have imagined it.

The laptop is threatening to slip off my lap as I curl in, trying to figure out how to breathe, when a hand takes away the laptop and my phone, putting them on the floor two metres away. I don't resist, still coughing, until the person claps my back.

I wipe the tears from my eyes and gratefully take the offered glass of water when the coughing finally stops.

Only seconds later I realise what I have seen and I look up to Mycroft with wide eyes.

 


	45. Shaky Grounds

_I wipe the tears from my eyes and gratefully take the offered glass of water when the coughing finally stops._

_Only seconds later I realise what I have seen and I look up to Mycroft with wide eyes._

* * *

My first instinct is to look away, quickly thank him and leave the room. But this is the nicest he has been to me in a while, and I want to know why.

Mycroft is already dressed in his usual three-piece suit, not a fleck of dust on it, not a hair out of place. He stands in front of me, looking down, a look of mild concern on his face.

"Are you alright?" his voice is calm, but sounds genuine. I nod tightly, just once, and continue to look at him silently. What does he want?

"I don't mean just now." Narrowing my eyes, I think about what he means. He knows that physically I am fine, just as he knows how I've been mentally the last few weeks.

"What do you want?" The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, but they don't sound harsh or strong. I sound scared, and I see in Mycroft's eyes that he notices it too. His blue-grey eyes darken - is that guilt? - and he looks away once, then quickly refocuses his gaze on me, crouching down so I can look him in the eyes properly. He is a bit smaller than me now, and it makes me feel safer.

"I have found myself mistaken." These words surprise me, and obviously Mycroft as well a bit, as he looks a little lost for words, until he continues.

"After you shot Sherlock, I felt as if I had finally realised the truth; your fondness towards me, so I thought, could not have been true. Anthea's-" he says the name with barely any reaction, just his eyes harden a bit, "-betrayal set the ground for this belief and your apparent betrayal only helped.

Maybe I should thank Daunt for what he did, he opened my eyes for me."

I can only stare at him, not quite sure what to make of his apology, and he looks right back at me.

"I'm sorry, Kiara, for how I acted and how I treated you in the last twenty-six days."

It feels strange, him apologising for it. After all, his assumptions were logical and understandable, to a certain point. Then, something falls into place in my mind and I understand.

"Mycroft, you... I don't want you to forgive me because I nearly died two days ago." He looks unimpressed, but I know there's more under his mask.

"You did die, Kiara." I cannot help but roll my eyes at that, it's so typically the Mycroft he was to me before I shot Sherlock that I have to fight the smile.

"Okay. I don't want you to forgive me because I died two days ago and then was resuscitated. I want you to forgive me because you understand my reasoning, why I did it how I did it."

Mycroft nods, and I am glad that he doesn't directly answer to that. I don't know whether I would have believed him, and even though it seems there is another change in our relationship, it's on shaky ground anyway.

I feel a pang of regret when I consider the probabilities of being as close to him as I was before again. It's nearly zero, and it hurts to have lost that easy companionship with him, but I don't regret shooting Sherlock in order to save Irene. At least Mycroft seems to be willing to talk to me again.

* * *

We fall back into our routine quickly. Sherlock, Mycroft and I search for leads in his study, we eat the posh food Mycroft buys – or rather, which his staff order and serve – and Sherlock teases him about his diet.

They are closer now. The still annoy each other, and sometimes don't talk to each other for days – even though that's rather Sherlock, Mycroft just rolls his eyes – and sometimes Sherlock plays the violin so violently that even I flee. They still have arguments and keep up their charade that they don't like each other. But they're working in the same room peacefully, even sometimes helping each other, which means more than words.

But Mycroft still keeps his distance to me. Not a cool distance, even though I thought so the first few days, but rather thoughtful and almost a bit shy.

I understand this peculiar behaviour more than a week later, nine days after I told him I want him to understand, to be exact. It's a bit after seven, just after dinner, and I am too tired to work, and, as I explain to Mycroft and Sherlock in a stricter tone than necessary, I do want to have a life beside this – or rather, a bit of relaxation and fun.

Sherlock and Mycroft, being the workaholics they are, just nodded and got back to work, taking the new files which Mycroft managed to download from my network-app with them.

* * *

It is a bit disturbing how much Mycroft's house feels like home by now. When I first moved in I had felt uncomfortable, being in the same building with Father's sworn nemesises. It hadn't taken long too reach the conclusion that even if they broke their side of the deal, they wouldn't gain anything. I wasn't a bargaining chip against Moran, I didn't know that much about the network and that what I knew I had already promised to tell them, and I wouldn't mind.

It was either working with them and destroying the network with them or not at all – because I had realised the size of what I was planning to do.

I would never have thought how close I would get to them. That I would call them both my brothers, a lot older brothers, but brothers none the less. Most of the time they were even less annoying than real brothers, from what I have heard and read about them. Mycroft is a bit overprotective and Sherlock is a bit rude, but they are both very capable to do what is necessary and I see them both as the closest to family I have, next to Irene, but she is slowly slipping. The last time I saw her was after I shot Sherlock, and I have changed since I last met her, really spent time with her.

It suddenly hits me that if Father was alive, I'd never have met them. Never in this way, I would never have met them as friends.

A second realisation flashes through my mind, that if Father came alive right now, I would follow him. I would go with him and fight with him and against Sherlock and Mycroft, but it would break my heart. It would break my heart and I would kill myself before I had to kill either them or Father.

* * *

My feet move without me noticing and suddenly I am in front of my room, coming out of my thoughts, reaching the present again.

It's dark inside, the curtains half closed, the floor messy and clothes and my belongings everywhere, just as I left everything. It looks like no one has been in my room after me, but there has been. The elegant white card on the bed betrays the intruder. Looking around the room carefully, checking for signs of danger, I slowly walk towards my bed.

When I finally see the card I release a relieved breath. The cursive handwriting is familiar, and only Sherlock and Mycroft sign their letters or texts like this.

" _I understand. MH_ " I whisper the words out loud, a smile forming on my lips.

He understands. He knows exactly how and why I shot Sherlock, and he can see the necessity in it. He understands what I went through and what I had to do.

The expensive fountain pen which lies on the desk since I moved in now finally has a purpose. It feels nice in my left hand and I decide to keep it. Mycroft won't mind, I'm sure, rich as he is he can buy hundreds of them.

Father often said it was strange that even though my left hand is my dominant hand, I use my right hand to shoot. I'm okay with my left, but really aiming is only possible with my right hand.

The ink is dark blue as I quickly draw some lines on a spare paper, getting used to the pen and how it writes, before I take up Mycroft's card. It would be embarrassing to misspell or smudge the ink when this is so very important.

I needn't have worried. The pen moves over the paper easily and the swift, flowing lines don't betray my nervousness or shaking right hand.

Knowing that Mycroft is still downstairs, I walk over to his room, blowing on the ink carefully. I don't want it to smudge now, or to colour his blanket when I put it there, his words facing up, my words on the other side.

* * *

When Mycroft comes into his bedroom, it's already very late, shortly after one. He could hear Kiara's quiet breathing when he went past her room, the deep and slow breaths showing that she was asleep.

Turning the lights on only barely, not so light that it will hurt his eyes, but not so dark that he can't see anything, he moves further inside, only to stop when he sees the card on his bed.

Why is it there? He can see his own handwriting, otherwise it looks mostly untouched. Did Kiara not accept it? Willing his heart to slow down, he gingerly picks it up and turns it around, reading what's written on the other side.

_Thank you._


	46. But If You Close Your Eyes

It's still awkward between Mycroft and me a few days later. I knew from the beginning that in the unlikely event of him forgiving me it would take a long time to repair our relationship at least partially, but it seems my hopes were up anyway.

Locking the feeling away isn't hard, especially when Mycroft is nice to me again. I can't help the smile blossoming on my face when he says something nice to me, or when I find my favourite food on the table at lunch one day.

I would almost call it similar to a crush, but I know it isn't. I have had some crushes in my life. No, maybe it's more like a mixture of the feeling I got when Father praised me and when I beat Andy or David.

Strangely, I have more nightmares than ever. They are mostly surreal, and I know they aren't real as soon as I wake up, but there is one fixture that comes up in most of them – loss. Seldomly it's Andy or David or even Father, as my mind has probably realised it can't scare me with that any more. But more often it's Irene or Mel, or, nearly every night, Sherlock or Mycroft. I don't kow whether it's the fear that now, so shortly after Mycroft forgave me, it might all be destroyed. Maybe it's also the fact that we are getting closer to Moran, and the likelyhood of dying increases. It might also be a metaphor. If we do manage to kill Moran, Sherlock's going to leave. He'll go to Watson, and even though he might like me to visit now and then, he'd be mostly fine with it. And Mycroft? I could stay with him, but I am not sure how he'd react. How close we are going to get again.

And even staying with Mycroft wouldn't be satisfying. Just floating around in the time is nothing I can stand for longer than a few days, and the tediousness of a normal job is nothing I would like to experience. My aim used to be working for and with Father, maybe taking his network one day, but now that's impossible – even if we weren't completely destroying it in the moment, I'd be working against Sherlock and Mycroft, and they wouldn't let me.

I'm mostly quiet during those dreams, waking up when it gets to surreal or when somebody I care for dies. Mostly the realisation of where I am is enough to get back to the present, to shake off the nightmare, to forget the pictures in my head, at least for the moment.

It's those that are more realistic that I hate. When the dream ends with me being thrown onto a bed or sofa, it's hard to differentiate between dream and reality.

Sherlock is rarely asleep when I push open his door, just to see him breathing. Mostly I just sit down next to him, as he started doing his experiments. Mycroft finally gave in, supplying with the necessary equipment and materials, but with the demand that they "stay in the room and it's still habitable afterwards". He burnt a hole in my pyjama-bottoms once.

Sometimes, that's not enough. Sometimes I plug out the x-box from my room, take it over to his and play assassin's creed until it dawns. Sherlock called a "repetitive, dumb game" but I threatened his violin with acid he had just created and told me about. That shut him up.

Once, he played for me. I was tired but couldn't sleep, and the nightmare had shaken me, until I had lain down on his bed. He started playing different songs, lullabies and sonatas, symphonies and waltzes. When I woke up the next day he wasn't there, the violin safely in its case, a thin blanket covering me.

That's another thing Mycroft supplied. Watson still has Sherlock's, and I don't think Mycroft wants to be near him now – he seems to be still angry, judging by the creases in Mycroft's suit when he last visited the doctor.

I don't do that with Mycroft. Sometimes I sit in front of his room for more than an hour, listening to his quiet breathing. I don't dare to go inside just yet.

* * *

It's one of those nights. One in which I see Mycroft dying, in which I see him falling to the ground, Moran's smile is merciless, and I can't do anything, my hands bound.

I wake up, my blanket constricting me, tying me down. Well, that would explain why I dreamt that. I try to cling to this shred of rationality, hoping it can ground me, but I still need to check on Mycroft. The blanket doesn't comply, and I can feel myself starting to hyperventilate slightly. I stumble through my room, and nearly trip over some clothes, until I finally reach the door.

Sherlock's experiments are audible through his door, the light explosion tells me he is bored again. I feel my lips twitch slightly, as if I am amused. In the moment my worry is stronger than that.

Mycroft's door is open, the room is dark, the bed empty, messy.

My heart nearly misses a beat, then speeds up even more. Where is he? My dream was just that, not reality, wasn't it? This is impossible.

I turn around, raking through my hair once, twice, my brain trying to catch up with what is happening.

I shout his name, but no one replies. The next logical step is to ask Sherlock whether he knows anything, but he denies it. Where the hell is Mycroft?

Maybe he is in his study. He could have had a nightmare and got up – he rarely does that, but it's the only thing I can come up with.

"Mycroft? Mycroft!" I call, hoping he might answer this time, but the only reply is the silence of the big house. Everything is dark, but I mostly don't bother turning on the lights. I know my way around, and anybody who might be lurking in the shadows would attack me with lights on or not.

A cry of disappointment and worry and anger escapes my throat when I find his study empty and dark, just as we left it. Where else? Where can I look?

I run back upstairs, maybe Sherlock knows something else, some place Mycroft might go. But still, I dont stop calling.

Suddenly, when I round the corner, I nearly run into him. Mycroft is not yet dressed, still in his sleep-clothes, but looks at me curiously and with a hint of worry.

"Kiara?" He asks, but can't continue as I interrupt him.

"You're alright – oh thank god, My, you're alright!" I don't think while I do it. The only thing I feel is the huge relief that my dream isn't reality. Only a few seconds later I realise that I am hugging him and that my tears are soaking through the fine fabric of his shirt.

Stepping back, I wipe my eyes, and try to stop crying. It was just a dream, I am over-reacting, I need to calm down, for god's sake!

"Sorry," I say, suddenly realising how I must look – messy hair, red eyes from crying, probably quite pale with dark circles under my eyes.

"What did you dream about?"

I don't ask how he knows, and I don't question his sincerity, but I hesitate to answer. Can I just tell him? Tell him I see him or Sherlock dying nearly every other night?

* * *

I can't recall later what exactly happened after that. I don't know whether I told him about my dream or if he deduced it. But then again, I don't exactly try. Right now, I don't care. I feel the steady rise and fall of Mycroft's chest and smell the expensive fabric softener used only on his sheets and realise that it's been nearly two months since I have last been in Mycroft's room.

I can hear song-lyrics in my head, of a song I heard some time ago, lyric that somehow describe my situation pretty well.

 _But if you close your eyes,_  
Does it almost feel like  
Nothing changed at all?  
And if you close your eyes,  
Does it almost feel like  
You've been here before?  


It does. I close my eyes and can nearly imagine I never shot Sherlock, can nearly imagine it's still November.

In the few seconds before I fall asleep, lulled into calm peacefulness by the familiarity of lying here, my head on Mycroft's chest, of being there if he gets a nightmare, I realise my mistake. And then, that if he noticed, and I'm sure he did, that he didn't comment on it.

 


	47. Crime Scene

When I wake up, I can feel Mycroft's breathing, it's steady and could almost convince me, but it's not deep enough, and too controlled.

"Good morning, Mycroft." My heart is beating quickly as I try to say the words as calmly as possible.

"Hello Kiara." I wait for him to add something, but he doesn't, and for several minutes, neither of us moves.

"How are you?" he interrupts the silence, it feels like a peace-offering.

His question actually makes me think and I find that I don't have a definite answer.

"I don't know. Better than yesterday." I stay how I am, not looking at his face, not sure whether I want to.

"You called me My yesterday." He states it in a calm voice, but I still freeze. It was clear he had noticed it, but I hoped I would have a bit more time to get ready for this.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."

"What happened in your nightmare?" So I didn't tell him. I won't do that now, either, at least not in detail – because why should I tell him? It's so sentimental, and so horrible to dream things like this that he'd feel strange.

"Moran killed you and I couldn't do anything. And I couldn't find you when I woke up." He's quiet for another minute. Then - "I don't mind."

"Hm?"

"You calling me 'My'."

I nod once, but can't suppress the smile that is breaking through my calm facade.

* * *

It's like a switch has been flipped afterwards. Of course, not everything is fine, and we are still not as close as we used to be, but there is progress.

Later that day, I realise which date it is. Double-checking it on two calendars and asking both Mycroft and Sherlock, I finally believe it. It's the 15th of January, exactly two years after I met Sherlock and Watson for the first time. I don't mention it to either of them, but I know Sherlock has noticed. But in comparison to me, it's not a good memory to him. Of course, without that day, he wouldn't have met me, but I am ninety percent sure he'd rather not have met me, if it had changed the events that happened afterwards. I see it in his eyes the whole time. Had I not been in the museum that day, he wouldn't have fought with Watson that day. Had I not been there, they wouldn't have kidnapped me, and Father wouldn't have acted that harshly, that quickly. Had I not been there, he could have still been with his friend.

Of course, Father had plans to kill him, and would have done so, probably successfully, otherwise. But he would have had more time with Watson, and he might die any day now. Moran could attack us without problems, and we would not be prepared properly. On second thought, Sherlock and Mycroft probably have a plan b.

I try to act like I'm not noticing what kind of mood he is in and avoid him the next few days.

* * *

That is exactly the reason why I am outside right now, shortly after three, four days after my nightmare. It's only a bit wet, and the air is fresh, but it feels good to walk through the city again. That is when I notice a hubbub at the end of the side-alley I am walking through.

The crime-scene is not very closed off, so I inch closer to see and take pictures for Sherlock. To my surprise, it's Sherlock's 'friend' from Scotland Yard, DI Lestrade, who is there investigating, and I smile at the memory of our one and only meeting.

Reporters and curious bystanders are trying to get a good picture, even though Lestrade did manage to hide the body with some kind of tent. The few pictures I get aren't very good, but they should be able to distract Sherlock. Looking around the crowd, I do see some familiar faces – criminals, higher and lower ranks, who I know from Father.

But one face, one person isn't normal. I recognize him, it isn't hard, I have seen him so often the last few weeks, and he is pointing a gun at Lestrade. He does it very well, hiding the gun in a way that it was just pure luck that I saw it.

I sigh while I'm taking my little hand-gun out, raising and shooting in one fluid movement. The bullet narrowly misses Lestrade and I frown, but hits Henry Scottson right at the heart.

"Well, that  _were_  my normal walks through the city," I turn around and run.

* * *

I can hear them behind me, at least three officers, chasing me.

"Stop her! Stop that girl!"

The people on the crowded street I'm on luckily don't understand instantly what, or rather who the caller meant, so I have a few more seconds. The long walks through London pay off now, as I know all the alleys and pathways and little back streets off by heart.

As soon as I turn left I curse my bad luck. Of all the ways I could have taken, this one is the one with no other paths crossing it, except for one.

My own breathing is rough and loud in my ears as I turn right into the other pathway and keep running. I'm not sure where I am going, the only option is to run and hope that I'll lose them eventually because they mustn't know that I am connected to Mycroft in any way. Besides, if they found Sherlock, all hell would break lose.

The next alley I turn into is long and quite wide, maybe one and a half meters, but without any crossings. I know why, I am in the part of the city where there isn't such a web of streets and alleys and paths.

"Stop now or we'll shoot!"

Most officers dont wear guns, and only a few more meters to go, the next turn is so very close, so I don't stop. I know I need to lose them soon, but it won't take long until I'm in another part of the city.

Suddenly two persons appear in front of me, a man and a woman, both holding a gun, pointing it at me. Breathing harshly, I come to a stop and turn around, only to see the three policemen behind me.

"Hands behind your head, turn to the wall," the voice of the woman is stern, and I know that they've got me now, but I'm still angry.

I let the air in my lungs go in a rush and narrow my eyes, and then slowly do as I'm told. The woman pushes me a bit further to the wall and then grips my wrists, bringing them behind my back and cuffing them, before she makes me turn around again.

"Do you have any weapons on you?" I shake my head no, but she still checks and sadly finds the knife and the gun. At the raised eyebrow I only shrug.

"Well, apart from them..." My voice is confident and cheeky, just as I want it to be, just as it needs to be to fit my persona. The little girl trick won't work, not with the weapons, so I'm not even going to try that, but maybe this will.

"What's your name?" She asks and sounds very annoyed now, so I decide to continue my charade.

"I can show you my ID if you'd let me," I smirk at her when she narrows her eyes, "All right, left pocket."

She carefully takes out my purse out of my left jacket pocket and frowns.

"Kiara Josephina Johnson. Well, Miss Johnson, I think you will have to come with us to the Yard."

"Any time."

 


	48. Big Mistake

"Hey Mikey," This is ridiculous. Very much so, calling Mycroft Mikey and calling from a police-phone.

"Kiara, where are you?" Of course he'd recognize my voice. But he does sound slightly annoyed at the nickname and I suppress a smirk.

"At the Yard. Listen, you need to come." I try to sound apologetic, like I would if I would be calling someone if I were normal, to fool the officer standing beside me.

"What did you do?"

"They say I shot somebody,"

"Did you? If yes, say no, otherwise whistle slightly."

"No, I didn't! You need to get me out, the DI..."

"Gregory Lestrade?"

"Yep, it wouldn't be good..."

"I'll see what I can do. ID says Johnson?"

"Yeah,"

"Be careful."

"I will be. Thanks, love you." I can almost hear him narrowing his eyes, so I disconnect and turn around to the officer.

"Done, thanks,"

He looks at me with narrowed eyes and I flash him a smile.

"Always a pleasure, talking with polite people..."

* * *

**Lestrade's POV:**

DI Gregory Lestrade's day has been tedious all day long. Gruesome crime scene and then that. A shooter, killing one of the crowd, even more trouble. At least they had their shooter in custody, a girl called Johnson, twenty, according to Donovan. Why does a person, with every opportunity in front of her, destroy everything she could have like that?

The interrogation room is close by and he needs to do it anyway, so he motions the sergeant walking towards the door that he'll do the questioning.

Inside, there is a surprise.

"DI Lestrade." The girl, somebody he met only once, approximately two years ago, is sitting there, confident, amused.

"Miss 'Johnson'," The quotation marks are nearly visible in the air, but the girl just smiles.

"Miss me?" She sounds cocky, very sure of herself.

"Every day. Strange seeing you here, I never thought your father would just let you sit here." Something flickers across her face for a second – is it grief? – but it's gone before he can be sure.

"Well..."

"Anyway. I know for a fact that you are not called Kiara Josephina Johnson and that you're not actually twenty. Care to explain?"

"Everybody needs some fun,"

"Okay, Miss 'Johnson' -"

"Kiara, please."

"Okay, Kiara, I don't think you quite know what you are dealing with exactly. Let's see, there's -"

"A murder charge, attacking a police-officer – honestly, that was two years ago! – resisting arrest, yes I know."

"You forgot about being a suspect in several other murder investigations, thefts and drug-dealing."

"Oh gosh, doesn't sound good..." She doesn't look concerned at all, and Lestrade can't shake a slight feeling of uneasiness. Even though she is Kiara Moriarty, she still is a seventeen year old girl, for god's sake!

"Kiara, did you shoot the bystander?"

"Yes I did, but he wasn't a bystander." It's a definite first for Lestrade. This girl, so very confident, only a suspect because they had seen a red-haired girl, admitting murder straight away.

"Who was he then?" The cooperation of her is outstanding, and Lestrade isn't sure whether he can believe her at all. She is Kiara Moriarty, the daughter of the consulting criminal, after all.

"Sorry, can't tell you that. You'll find out sooner or later, but not now."

"Kiara, you have just admitted killing a man, as well as other charges. Don't you think you should cooperate? You have very many years in prison in front of you."

"No I don't, I am under-age and any psychologist will tell you that I am not mentally stable – ten years? I think less, don't you?" Lestrade's day is getting worse and worse, and he knows that she won't tell him anything else, so he waves to the one-way mirror.

"Take her to the cell, I'll talk to her later again,"

"See you later, Detective Inspector,"

Hopefully rather later than sooner.

* * *

The next time Lestrade sees Kiara is an hour later. She is walking through Scotland Yard, and is nearly at the door, when he notices her.

She sees him as well, smirks once and hurries her step. Lestrade can only groan. Of course, she is Jim Moriarty's daughter, but how could she escape so easily? He checks whether his gun is still in the holster, even though he didn't need it in the last hours, he just feels safer with it. Then he follows her, but doesn't alert anybody else. What if somebody really came and got her out? Besides, no-one else knows who she really is. He didn't tell anybody. Something, he isn't sure what, stopped him from the beginning. Maybe sentiment. She had been connected to Sherlock in a way, and he somehow feels sorry for her. It couldn't have been easy, growing up as the daughter of a raging psychopath.

It is already getting dark as he follows Kiara out of the building, along one street, until she turns left into a small alley once more. Looking inside it, he can't see her, but she must have gone along here, so he walks around the next corner. Big mistake.


	49. Next Time We Meet, Can You Wear A Tie?

_It is already getting dark as he follows Kiara out of the building, along one street, until she turns left into a small alley once more. Looking inside it, he can't see her, but she must have gone along here, so he walks around the next corner. Big mistake._

He kept his gun in his holster, being pretty sure that he could defeat this girl. He didn't expect to have a gun in his face, barely five centimetres away from the bridge of his nose. Swallowing once, he changes his focus to Kiara, who is holding the gun with a perfectly steady hand, and slowly raises his hands.

"Hello Mr DI. It's been, what, two and a half years? Nearly same situation, similar place... I am having a strong feeling of deja-vu." Her voice is light, teasing, but not in a bad way.

He only frowns slightly, but doesn't do anything else, besides thinking very quickly. Why is she doing this? Why did she clearly show him that she wasn't supposed to be leaving NSY?

"You can speak, you know. If I wanted you dead, you would have been the moment I shot at that crime-scene. Don't do anything stupid, though, I might change my mind." Her voice is still kind, despite the thinly hidden threat.

"Why are you doing this?" The detective inspector asks, careful not to move.

"You will find out soon enough – until then, because I wanted to." Her voice is serious now, and slightly sad, and Lestrade can hear that she means it.

"Now – walk backwards, I'll help you.  _Don't_  do anything stupid." She walks around him now, and he slowly turns. She motions with his gun where to go, and he obeys. What else should he do? If she really wanted him dead, he knows, there is nothing he can do to stop her right now.

After five minutes of walking, she stops and so does he. He can hear the big street again, it must be just around the corner, but Kiara doesn't look bothered. She points at a rain drain of a house in a corner with her free hand and looks at him.

"Give me your gun. Then, give me the keys to your hand-cuffs and cuff yourself to the pipe. Sit down beforehand." Her instructions are calm and cold, and slowly he does as told.

She crouches down as well, and checks the cuffs. To her surprise, he did it correctly, and quite tightly, so it would be almost impossible to get out of them.

"I'm not stupid, you know. It was clear you'd check them, so why resist the inevitable?" Lestrade says drily.

He looks at her to see her first real, genuine smile.

"I wish everybody was as reasonable as you," She answers, and puts her gun down.

"Even though – you couldn't just have worn a tie, could you?" she asks with a grin and Lestrade couldn't help but laugh out loud.

"Well, maybe my standards are just to high. Doesn't matter – next time we meet, can you wear a tie, please?" Once again Lestrade has to laugh, and he feels strangely comfortable, even though he is cuffed to a rain drain and completely at the mercy of the daughter of one of the most twisted and most dangerous men that ever lived.

"I'll try. Next time we meet, can you not run away and kidnap me?" It's her turn to laugh now, she looks at him and for a moment she looks truly happy. But then the sadness clouds her eyes just like it before.

She looks away and takes a cloth out of her pocket, tying it over Lestrade's eyes. He can't see her now, everything is black. He can hear her breathing next to him, and while she is doing something unknown, they are both silent for a minute, until she breaks the silence once more, even if she does it a lot different to what the detective expected.

"How do you feel about Sherlock Holmes?" her voice is calm and sounds almost bored, but he can feel his anger rise.

"He was a better man than your father ever was, or you'll ever be. What do you care about him? You and your father got what you wanted, didn't you? Your daddy didn't make it, but everybody has to make sacrifices." He can hear her make a sound, it sounds like a mixture of a sharply indrawn breath and a laugh, and then she replies.

"But you doubted him, didn't you? You arrested him, you believed the media, even though you know how changeable they are." Her voice is almost calm, and that makes him wonder. Is she angry?

"I – I didn't – it was just for a moment, what can I do? Of course I feel guilty now, but I can't change what I have done. Anyway, it was your father who did it!"

She doesn't answer, and he can't hear anything from her, and now he starts to worry.

"Do you plan to just leave me here?" He knows he should not have joked with her before, or provoked her just then, but he just couldn't help it. He is vulnerable right now, defenceless, it's getting darker every minute and he is very clearly a police-officer. This is the perfect situation for every criminal, and he knows this.

Suddenly Kiara speaks very close to his ear.

"If you make a sound, I'll reconsider my decision not to hurt you. I will be close enough to hear you all the time, so  _don't you dare._ "

He nods slightly and then hears how she gets up and walks away. The thought of calling out despite her command crosses his mind, but he decides against it. His anger is dying down and his rational mind is taking over again. If it's true what she said, that she would be close the whole time, it would be very unhealthy for him. And somehow he believes her. He doesn't know why, but he feels inclined to trust her to this certain degree, even if his ex-wife would call him stupid.

Five minutes later, he hears footsteps coming towards him, and now he really starts to worry. What if it is someone else? The best solution would be if it was one of his colleagues, as humiliating that might be, but that is so unlikely.

Just as his breathing starts to pick up, Kiara speaks.

"Relax, it's just me. I would say well done, but I expected as much." Her voice is only slightly patronizing, but he can hear the smirk.

Suddenly he hears the sound of a spray-can above his head, the sound is quite unique.

"Not very clever, doing that in front of a police-officer," he attempts to joke, and he can hear Kiara laugh.

"Well, maybe not, but I'd rather do so and make sure you won't be killed." This makes him shut up, and he starts worrying once more. What is it about this girl, whom he should absolutely hate, that makes her so amiable? That makes him enjoy her presence and trust her, even if just barely? As she said herself, she isn't exactly mentally stable.

After a minute, she stops spraying. The detective inspector moves his head to the left and the right, trying to figure out where she is and what she is doing. After a second, he feels her finger on his chest. He can't help but pull back for a second, this is just so strange.

"Don't move," Kiara orders and he stays still. She is drawing something on his chest. It feels like a Roman three and something else, but he isn't sure.

Only a second later he feels the sting of a needle in his upper arm, and the grip of her hand, holding him there. The effects of the fluid start quickly. He feels heavy and numb, but his mind is clear.

"Wh't did y'do?" His voice is slurred, and this scares him even more.

"Wh's go'n 'n?" He knows he must sound like an idiot, but he can't help it, he just feels so  _helpless_.

"It's a drug – nothing bad, don't worry. It will simply paralyse you for about ninety minutes. You won't be able to speak or anything, but that is normal. There are no after-effects, well, no bad ones. Don't worry, you will be found soon." With that, she touches his cheek and leaves.

The drug is fully effective now, and without his sense of sight, all other senses are sharpened. He knows it's useless, but he tries moving, no avail, tries shouting, nothing.

And after a few minutes, he gives up and hopes somebody will come this way for some reason.


	50. Moriarty, Consulting Criminal

One hour later, he hears steps. They are harsher, the person is walking in heels, and after a second, he knows who it is.

"Lestrade!" Donovan calls out, obviously worried and surprised – but not as much as he would have expected.

Lestrade still can't move a muscle, and he knows he is worrying Sally too much, but what can he do? She comes closer and finally, she takes the blindfold off. He blinks once to adjust to the sudden light of her flashlight, as it is dark by now, and notices that the only thing he can move are his eyes.

"Are you okay?" He can't even swallow to try to communicate with her, but she does the right thing anyway. Calling an ambulance, she looks in his eyes and finally seems to realise that he is alert. She grips his chin and holds his head so he can look her in the eye properly and smiles briefly.

"If you are okay, blink once. If not, twice. If you can't blink, roll your eyes," the detective blinks once and Sally smiles again. Soon after, the paramedics come, and only now Greg feels his exhaustion. The last thing he sees while he is being out on the stretcher is the sign which Kiara sprayed above him, and probably the same she drew on his chest. He was right, it is similar to a Roman three, but with two C's in it.  _Moriarty, Consulting Criminal._

* * *

Half an hour later, he is able to move his fingers, then his toes, then his hands. After another fifteen minutes, he is able to move again, even if he does feel a bit stiff.

"Sally? How did you find me?" She is still sitting next to him, in the hospital, even though the doctors said he would be okay and she is supposed to be working.

"It was an anonymous lead – somebody called from a public phone, now we are guessing it was her – and she just gave this address. That was about ninety minutes ago, and we weren't sure whether to go, but then I decided to go, especially because you were missing. The Chief Superintendent was livid, you know that?" Lestrade can't help but smile back at the idea of annoying the man, even though an uncomfortable thought comes to his head.

"It was simply a power-play. She just wanted to show me...!" he whispers, but Sally hears. At her questioning eyebrow, he sighs.

"Kiara Johnson is Kiara Moriarty. Yes, daughter of Jim Moriarty. Anyway, she managed to escape somehow, and I followed her, until she surprised me. She had me completely under her control, you saw how strong that paralyser was, and she had a gun. But she chose to leave me there and make completely sure that I would be found, she even told me so, just to show me what she could do, probably. The only thing she wanted to know is something – something about  _him_. Did you find anything in her cell?" Sally, to give her credit, doesn't smile or laugh about what happened. Instead she frowns.

"Yes, actually. About ten minutes after she must have escaped, the older Holmes appeared – had heard about it somehow and wanted to take her with him, probably for questioning. In there was a note, with  _Bit too late, my dear_   written on it. Holmes didn't tell us what it meant, but he looked annoyed..."

"I bet he would be. What was that sign, on the wall?" Sally just shrugs, Lestrade is sure it means something. Something important, he can feel it.

"She said, before she drugged me and left, that it would safe my life..."

"No idea, I mean I think I have seen it before once or twice, but I really don't know,"

Greg knows it's not right, but he wants to meet Kiara again. Not in the same circumstances, but he wants to ask her what the sign means and why she said it would safe his life.

* * *

Kiara's POV:

"Was that really necessary?" Mycroft looks a bit annoyed, but luckily not angry, about my adventure at the Yard.

"Why didn't you wait until I got you out?"

I realise that I could have done so – I could have waited for Mycroft to come with some excuse about higher clearance rubbish and then I'd be home with no trouble. But this was a lot more fun, and it wasn't the only advantage.

"DI Lestrade interviewed me. He recognized me. Should I have waited until he told everyone who I really am?" I don't tell him that in reality I simply wanted to talk to the DI, but under my conditions. There was no way to talk with him about Sherlock in Scotland Yard, with the microphones and the cameras, so I had to lure him out.

"He hadn't told anyone then, had he? Now he has even more reason to do so." He is right in some points, but I'm not going to tell him about my little chat with Lestrade.

"He has exactly the same reasons – why should he in any way protect my identity? For him I am just the mental daughter of the man who forced Sherlock to commit suicide and who killed so many people. There is a way to silence him though." Mycroft looks doubtful, and suddenly I realise how that sounded.

"Silence him as in you, the big scary brother of Sherlock, who works in the government, telling him it's necessary to keep the secret so the common masses wouldn't attack me, the daughter of the evil criminal, as you want to get information from me and because I'm still underage or something, you should be able to make something up. And the other police-officers aren't supposed to know as then the rumour might leak. What do you think?"

Mycroft sighs once and nods.

"How long will the paralyser last?" I don't ask how he knows, but I can guess – the little syringe I always take with me is empty and I want to go and fill it up.

I look at my phone, which Mycroft nicely got back from the Yard when he went to pick me up, and realise Lestrade must be nearly back at full motion control.

"Probably it has just worn off, but the paramedics are likely still checking him over, so he won't be able to leave or tell anyone – but he'll be fine soon, so you should hurry." I smile at him sweetly when he sighs deeply, and pat him on the arm.

"Have fun, My."


	51. Dr John Watson

Mycroft obviously does his job very convincingly, as I watch them through the security cameras in the Yard. Sherlock showed me how to hack myself into them, it's not a hard job and I could have done so myself easily, but he slips past the security easily. When I ask him how he did that so quickly he just smirks, telling me he "had a bit of practice". I decide not to ask again, even though I can imagine pretty well what he means. How must Dr Watson have felt, finding Sherlock sitting at a laptop with full access to the databank of New Scotland Yard? The way he seemed to me the times we met he had quite high moral standards.

Lestrade only grits his teeth and nods in a resigned manner, the woman next to him looks slightly scared, but even more angry and affronted. I can't help but laugh out loud when I realise that it was her who arrested me.

* * *

In the next two weeks we search for Moran, trying to find his exact location, but he keeps slipping out of our reach – just when we think we know where he is, we get another lead saying something else. It's mind-numbing and exhausting, and many evenings are spent by me practising in the basement, trying to stay fit, but mostly to keep the boredom and frustration at bay. We are so close to finishing this, and even though I have no idea what to do once it's all over, I want Moran dead – and I know Sherlock feels the same, though he has different reasons.

I check the network-app every few days, looking for data we can use, but sometimes I just don't want to look through it, don't want that feeling of hope being crushed once again. Which is exactly why I find the video-file a day too late.

It takes a moment to realise what I am seeing, then I gasp.

"Shit! Sherlock, look!" We are in Mycroft's study, so he just jumps up and goes behind the chair I am sitting in to look at the screen. I'm actually scared when his eyes widen for a moment and then narrow, his face turning stony.

"Mycroft, how is this possible?" He snaps, gesturing at my phone, and Mycroft, who was just getting up to look at the phone as well, frowns.

"What's going on?" he asks, sounding confused, as I continue staring at the screen in horror, watching the video that luckily plays without sound.

"John's been kidnapped, that's what's going on!" Sherlock hisses, and I can feel the anger radiating from him – towards his brother.

"Sherlock, this is not My's fault, I don't know how this could have happened. Remember the last time you blamed My for letting Dr Watson being kidnapped?" Sherlock momentarily pauses at this, remembering the scene in the basement with Anthea all too well, and I use that break to continue.

"I don't know whether this video is real, even though it looks like it. My, check through security cameras from the last two days. The video was saved yesterday, so my guess is that that is when he was kidnapped. Sherlock, I'm going to load the video from here onto my computer, so you can watch it in higher quality to try and find out where Dr Watson is being held, if this isn't a fake. Okay?"

My clear instructions seem to pull him out of his haze, and he nods, as does Mycroft, and we start.

* * *

When the video is on the laptop, the audio works as well. In any other case it wouldn't have disturbed me as much. Yes, it sounds horrible, but what was actually being done to Dr Watson wasn't all that terrible. The fact that Sherlock is shaking with anger and that he winces every time his friend is hit, is what makes it so bad.

I try to look at the video objectively, to try and see what they are planning to do with it.

Dr Watson is tied to a chair in the middle of the room, looking slightly dazy. I'm not sure whether it is because he just woke up at the beginning of the video, or because his nose his bleeding and his eye is swelling closed from the hits he receives. The attacker's face is not really visible, as he has his back to the camera, but it's obvious that Dr Watson doesn't recognize him.

I'm pulled from this set of mind when Sherlock growls when a particularily bad hit knocks his best friend unconscious, and I feel like doing so as well.

"Found anything?" I fear what they might answer, hoping that it's just a fake, but Mycroft sighs and nods.

"Yesterday, I guess chloroform, taken off a side-street. Surprised him, didn't stop him from fighting." A small, proud smirk flits over Sherlock's smile, so quick that I'm not sure I haven't imagined it, then it forms a mask of determination.

"I know where he is, they took him to a block of houses with very specific watermarks in the cellars – I'm sure I even know which house it is, I have been in there before. I'm not sure John remembers that though, or he doesn't connect that case with his current location. Anyway, we need to go, can you call in ambulances and your agents?"

He looks ready to whirl out of the room, but Mycroft stops him.

"We can't go in there, especially not you." Sherlock anrrows his eyes and opens his mouth to complain, but I get Mycroft's train of thought.

"If you go in there, Sherlock, a lot of bad and very few good things could happen. Would you be able to leave him just there, not talk to him at all, not show him you're alive, keep distant? He knows you, knows how you fight and act. Do you want to risk all our work, the safety of us and your friends, just for this?"

"What am I supposed to do? Leave him there, wait until they are bored and kill him?" He shouts, and it's scary how furious he is.

"No, you should plan carefully and then let my agents get him out." Mycroft jumps in, trying to make his brother see logic.

"Your agents are incapable idiots, they would be killed, as would John, before they entered the room!"

"Do you think I am incapable as well?" The two brothers look at me, momentarily stunned, and I bite my lip.

"Dr Watson will hopefully not recognize me instanly. If I am discovered, I'm not endangering so many people, I'll just be brought to Moran. I can work with the agents to get him out."

"Kiara, you do realise that Moran will probably kill you as soon as he sees you?" Mycroft asks, and I am oddly touched by the rare show of worry.

"Not instantly. He'll want to know how much I know, what I did, who I worked with, I'll have a few days. And your agents will be there as well."

Surprisingly it's Sherlock who comes to my aid this time.

"It could work. Some disguise, so John won't know who she is, and then..."

Mycroft breathes in and out harshly, then nods.

"What do you need?"

 


	52. All Of You

I pick out a dark hoodie and comfortable, not too tight trousers, together with black sneakers, and a black scarf out of thin, almost see-through fabric and put everything on. Knwing my hair could betray me, I tie it together in a messy knot at the nape of my neck, hoping it won't come loose.

At last, I take out the thin black gloves, which Father gave me to my sixteenth birthday. It's strange how long ago that is, and I suddenly realise I never celebrated my seventeenth.

The gloves are almost a tiny bit small, but they still fit and are the best I have, so I put them in my pocket and go downstairs.

Mycroft and the three agents are waiting there, Sherlock stands close by and walks towards me as soon as he sees me.

"This is a camera with a microphone, we'll be able to see and hear the same you do. Don't crush it, okay?" I see the desperation in his eyes and nod, as he clips it to my hood.

The agents Mycroft picked are well-chosen, not too bulky, but rather lean and swift, dressed in dark clothes just as myself. They also seem to instantly recognize my authority – even though Mycroft probably briefed them seconds before I arrive.

"I want us to split up inside the house, securing everything and searching for Dr Watson. I don't need anyone of you to cuddle me, so do your job, you'll know when I need you.

As communication, we'll have three whistles.

There are three questions: Have we found Dr Watson? Do we need help? Do we need an ambulance?

One whistle means yes, two no – so if you have found Dr Watson, need help, but no ambulance, you'll whistle once, pause, once, pause, twice. Understood?"

Nobody says anything, so we take off. Sherlock and Mycroft will be waiting in a side-alley, watching the video from my camera, they drop me and the agents off before leaving, everything in almost complete silence, the quiet purr of the motor the only sound.

* * *

John's POV:

The fist hits him unexpectedly hard, his head whips to the side and John can't help but groan. It's been going on like this for hours, and he has no idea what's going on. His kidnappers hasn't asked any questions so far, just kept hitting him, and he's pretty sure he's got a broken nose and at least two bruised ribs.

"What to you want?" He slurs, spitting out blood, but he is only rewarded with another hit, like the last few times he asked.

It's so monotone, the feeling of blood running down his chin, running down his head from a wound which knocked him unconscious when he received it, it drying on his temple and cheeks and the dull throbbing of his nose, spiking whenever the fist hits him, makes the time go funny. He isn't actually sure how long he's been here, he's guessing about two days, but it could also have been a lot longer.

So when there are sounds of a fight outside the door to the room he is sitting in, and when the door bursts open and a person dressed in dark colours comes in, he is actually happy something is happening – even though he can't be sure the person means well for him.

The person who was in the room with him for the last few hours seems surprised, but then moves to attack.

Happy for the break, he quickly mentally checks himself over, and luckily, there are no life-threatening injuries – even if he hurts all over. Watching the fight, he can't help but silently cheer for the newcomer as he wrestles his opponent down, pinning him to the floor with a knife to his throat.

"Who are you? Who are you working for?" To John's surprise, the newcomer speaks with a low, but melodic voice of a woman.

"You have missed someone, you and your little friends," The man on the floor sneers, his face a victorious grimace.

"What do you mean? There's only Moran, no one else, we have insured that!"

"Have you though? Everyone had a deputy. What makes you think Moran doesn't?" John can see the triumphant smile of the man, and can imagine the face of the woman, even though her whole face is covered by a dark cloth.

"You made a mistake. And they know you're alive.  _All_  of you."

* * *

Kiara's POV:

" _You made a mistake. And they know you're alive._ All _of you."_

I stare at him for a moment, trying to process his words, then I act on instinct. The pommel of my knife is heavy enough to knock the man unconscious. Only then it really gets me and I throw my knife against the furthest wall.

"Shit!" I shout, not caring what Dr Watson might think of me. "Shit, shit, shit!"

I rip out the knife of my opponent and throw it as well, channeling my frustration into the throw. I must have been shouting for at least two minutes, until I somehow calm down and realise that I still need to free Dr Watson and tell the agents what's going on.

Jumping up and collecting my knife from the floor, I take deep breaths to calm to my normal level, and walk towards the chair Dr Watson is sitting in. He is watching me warily, obviously trying to figure out what is going on, but I decide to ignore it.

Putting the knife on the floor next to the chair, I reach out to touch his face, to check for injuries, but he moves away. Rolling my eyes, I reach out again and grip his chin carefully, hard enough to hold him steady but not so hard it would hurt.

He grimaces when I lightly touch his nose, and judging by the blood on his face and the swelling it looks broken, nothing I can help with, so I keep checking. There is blood coming from somewhere beneath his hair, it's sticky and red, but after a few seconds I see it's not bleeding anymore. His breathing is unsteady, by the way he avoids taking too deep breaths his ribs aren't okay, but otherwise he doesn't look too badly hurt.

Letting go of his face, I take a step back and start whistling: One, two, one –  _Found Dr Watson, don't need help, need ambulance._

Finally I kneel down and cut his ties with the knife, first freed are his wrists, then his ankles. He doesn't try to get up, rather rubs his wrists, and looks at me, obviously still wary.

But now, I have other concerns. The knife needs cleaning, but I put it away anyway, now I need to call Sherlock and Mycroft.

It rings only once until they pick up, and in that time I unclip the camera – no need to get a feedback effect.

"Yes?"

"Harrison, does he speak German?" I use the name Sherlock told me the night we met in Paris, hoping he'd understand not to call me Kiara.

"What?"

"Does Dr Watson speak German?" I repeat, and look around to the Doctor. He is still sitting there, watching me carefully, and I remember the first time we met in the museum – he had looked at me in the same way.

"He doesn't, no, not as far as I know."

"I hope you are right." I think for a moment before I switch into German, hoping Dr Watson does indeed not understand.

" _Harrison, it seems Moran had a deputy as well."_

" _I know, I've heard. How is he?"_

" _I think broken nose, maybe concussion, some bruised ribs... He's fine, the ambulance should be here soon -"_ I interrupt myself as the agents come in, nodding at them once and then look towards Dr Watson, lightly touching my eyebrow in a mock salute.

As soon as I left the room, I continue.

" _It's not only him, though. I think they took him because you broke your side of the deal – you didn't die when you commited suicide. You need to get agents to your friends, now – I fear they might be attacked as well."_

" _I'll see you when you reach the car."_

" _I'm ten minutes away. Don't mind me and help them, I'll catch a taxi home or walk – just hurry!"_

Sherlock hangs up abruptly and I start walking. Only after a few minutes I realise I still have the scarf in front of my face and I push it down, together with my hood, enjoying the cold night-air on my skin.


	53. Little One

We don't stop searching for Moran. But predominantly, we look for his deputy, a so-called James Maynard. He is clever, hiding his tracks, making quick moves, being unpredictable. It was pure luck Sherlock and Mycroft were quick enough to stop the attacks on Mrs Hudson and Lestrade – or rather, Mycroft's agents. I shiver when I remember how close it was, according to Mycroft; the last time I saw Lestrade he had been rather easy to get on with – even in the strained situation of me kidnapping him.

So we nearly can't believe our luck when we find a solid lead, pointing to a house in the west of London, marking his presence there for at least five days. The risk of it being a trap is huge. It's been ten days since I freed John and found out Moran has a deputy as well, ten days in which Maynard was ready to prepare for us.

But on the other hand, so did we. We spend the eleventh day checking the lead, but by the look of it, it's real.

It's unsettling though, that Maynard is not even mentioned in my network-app. There is no mention at all, even though there are, now knowing of Maynard, some things Moran just couldn't have done.

Still, it's enfuriating that it let us down so much – and that we didn't notice at all.

Mycroft says Dr Watson is fine. His ribs are, as suspected, just bruised, not cracked or broken, he had a minor concussion and his nose is broken – but it'll all heal in two months, top.

Apparently he did ask some uncomfortable questions, for example who saved him and why I suddenly started speaking German, but somehow Mycroft managed not to reply anything useful.

On the evening of the seventeenth of February, twelve days after our quick rescue-mission of Watson, we take off to Windsor. No agents are with us this time, we don't want too many people knowing what's going on – and besides, Sherlock still doesn't trust them.

* * *

Sherlock's POV:

The street they stop in already betrays what kind of house it is they will be entering – big, luxurious and posh, it's the part of town for the rich people – the really rich people.

Sherlock checks his gun, loading it again and putting ammonition in his pocket, and then puts it away. They still have about two-hundred metres to walk, not wanting to be seen stopping directly in front of Maynard's current location.

Kiara, of course, has got loads more with her – her gun and two more magazines in her pocket, her knife under her shirt and her needle with paralyser secured on her arm.

Mycroft walks behind them, about ten metres, looking like he has nothing to do with Sherlock and Kiara, who are walking close to each other and laughing. They're nearly at the house, and even though it isn't really inconspicious, but it might buy them some time.

Inside the house, at least from the back-entrance, the house is nothing like expected. White and bleak, empty rooms, dirty.

It feels more and more like a trap, but Sherlock can't see any sign of people in the house – none of them had been in these rooms for years. So what's going on?

The stairs leading up do look used. Often in the last few days, but cleaned so Sherlock can't see how many people went up and down there. At least it's wide and straight, so they aren't in a too vulnerable position.

Everything is more or less dark, the big windows let in grey light of dusk, and some lights are on.

Finally they reach a well-used door, light spills through the crack beneath the door, and voices are audible – two men. Their words are indiscernable though, the door is too thick and they are speaking decidedly too quiet.

Looking at each other, Sherlock sees the quiet resolution in Kiara's and Mycroft's faces. Knowing there is no other way in, he kicks open the door and barges in.

They come to a stop next to each other, Sherlock on the left, Kiara in the middle and Mycroft on the right. It's not hard to recognize Maynard, who just turned around – he doesn't look surprised, and he is smiling.

Maynard is not a very tall man, certainly not as tall as Sherlock or Mycroft, but taller than Kiara. His eyes bear a coldness that only very few criminals have, not doing what he's doing out of fun, but out of necessity and curiousity.

When Sherlock sees a movement out of the corner of his right eye, he is momentarily confused. What is Kiara doing?

But only when he turns his head he realises that Kiara isn't just supporting her gun with the other hand, accidentally lowering it. She is in fact lowering the gun, not even clicking the safety back on. Her face is ashen, her eyes wide with fear and she starts breathing quicker and quicker. It's strange, she never had this reaction before, even in an almost-certain-death situation, and Sherlock wonders what could have triggered it.

Maynard moves so quick even Sherlock and Mycroft are surprised, not being quick enough to turn. He grabs Kiara on the neck and walks her swiftly, forcefully backwards, slamming her against the wall. In the same moment ten men step out of the shadows into the room, pointing at them.

For once, Sherlock is really and actually surprised. This is completely out of his control, and he doesn't know what's going on – when Smith and Stone had tortured him, he at least knew the power dynamics.

"Drop the gun, little one." Maynards voice is soft, almost caring, if it weren't for the complete lack of passion.

And Kiara does. Slowly, and according to her face scared stiff, she loosens her grip on the handle until it falls clattering to the ground, luckily not going off despite the security not being on.

"I'm not afraid of you." She whispers, her voice breaking in the middle of the sentence, even for an outsider it is clear she has never been so afraid of anyone in her life.

"Then why did you drop it, darling?" He asks, moving very close to her ear and speaking so quietly Sherlock almost doesn't catch it.

"Remember the last time you said that." Kiara closes her eyes and shivers, almost choking back a sob, and Sherlock frowns.

He doesn't understand what is happening at all. How and why does Kiara know this man? Why is she so utterly terrified of him, making her obey even when she could have killed him so easily?

The tables have turned now, of course. Kiara is powerless, even if she still had her gun, and Sherlock and Mycroft both have their hands in the air. Now it's Maynard who is playing the game, who is obviously playing with Kiara's mind.

"Kia-" he starts, but without turning around, Maynard interrupts him, his voice now not soft at all.

"If either of you two speak or move at all, I will kill the girl and the politician, the detective will be incapacitated for Moran." Looking back into Kiara's face directly, he carries on, again using the soft tone which sounds even creepier. "You, however, my dear, may speak as much as you want – I remember our lovely little chats."

Kiara is still breathing way too shallow and has her eyes closed, and if Sherlock isn't mistaken, a tear is leaking down her cheek. What on earth happened to make her so scared? What did this man do to her, and why didn't Moriarty stop him?

"You do know that you won't get out this time, though? Big daddy isn't here anymore, little one. But maybe, maybe, I'm not going to kill you at all. I think I'd like to keep you..."

Gripping her neck tightly, he pulls her forward, and when she stumbles, onto her knees, rearranging his grip and pushes her face towards the ground.

Sherlock can't understand why she isn't resisting, why she lets herself be treated this way. He doesn't even use that much strength by the looks of it, she is definitely able to defeat him, if she wanted to.

The only sound is Kiara's unsteady, fearful breathing, her forehead nearly touching the ground, her hands not even balled to fists, her fingers shaking, until Maynard leans down to her ear.

"You can go, you know – if you  _can_." He mocks, and Sherlock hopes she'll finally overcome her panic, and get up, knowing that he and Mycroft would be allowed to do so as well. But no, she keeps quiet and still, a tear dropping to the ground.

"You know, Moran only wants the detective. He'd like to get you as well, but I'm sure he'll make an exception for me – he knows you'll be in good hands, darling. And the politician? That woman, I think you called her Anthea? She said he doesn't scream, little one. Have you heard him scream, ever?" Kiara is shaking everywhere now, now and then Sherlock can hear the quiet sobs. Quickly looking over to Mycroft, he sees that his brother has paled as well, remembering that night in the basement and seeing the effect Maynard has on Kiara, the girl who despite her age shot people without hesitation, who had nearly died three times during their hunt for the network, who had so seldomly shown her problems so open, rather bottling them all up.

"It can be like it was. I want to know whether I can make the iceman scream. What do you think?" Maynard whispers, smiling in that empty, emotionless way. He is enjoying it, torturing Kiara like this, but there is no joy, no fun in his eyes at all, only curiousity, and Sherlock realises how dangerous the people Jim Moriarty surrounded himself and Kiara with.

Kiara's trembling slows down, even though her breathing doesn't, and she finally says something.

"No." Her voice is so quiet Sherlock needs to strain his ears to understand her, and when he looks at Mycroft, he can see the horror he feels himself in his brother's eyes, behind the mask.

"You will not harm us. I am not afraid of you." Her voice is croaky and breaking every few words, but there is a certain strength she didn't have before.

"Oh, really?" Maynard asks, curiously, and a man from behind Sherlock steps closer and touches the back of Sherlock's neck with his pistol.

"Yes!" The single word is nearly shouted, and Kiara sounds strong again for a moment. Pushing up against his hand on her neck, she twists to her side and kicks him in the solar plexus, knocking him back and winding him.

Without getting up, she stumbles backward to Sherlock and Mycroft, and when Maynard, having caught his breath, doesn't intervene, Sherlock bends down and pulls her up, holding onto her arms, worried she might fall down again if he didn't.

Her face is wet with tears, her eyes still wide open with fear, still breathing too quickly.

"Well done, little one." Maynard says and Kiara shudders, but doesn't reply.

To Sherlock's surprise, Maynard waves his hand and the men step back, all lowering their guns. The criminal himself takes up Kiara's dropped gun, gets up and unloads it and then hands it, handle first, to Kiara. She doesn't react at all, so Sherlock warily takes it and puts it in his pocket.

"As promised." He steps aside and clears the way to the door, but manages to touch Kiara's cheek once as they are walking past him.

"Until next time, little one."

Kiara flinches violently, and stumbles again, but somehow they make it out if the house and to the car.

* * *

The ride back home isn't much better, Kiara isn't sobbing any more, but the tears are still running down her face freely. Thomas keeps looking back over his shoulder, his concern obvious on his face, but there is nothing they can do. With a single look Mycroft and Sherlock agreed not to ask her anything now, just to get her home safely and if necessary give her sedatives.

It is slightly uncomfortable, as Kiara is holding on to Sherlock and not letting go, not even when they leave the room.

It is very worrying how out of her mind she still is. Still trembling, still there are tears coming from her eyes, she's still not talking and doesn't let go.

Finally they decide not to try and change her clothes while she's still awake. Mycroft gets a syringe with a light sedative and gets changed, then they try to inject her.

But, and Sherlock scolds himself for not predicting it, she won't let them. Twisting and moving away, once even hitting it, and she doesn't stop panicking.

"Kiara, look." Mycroft says calmly, keeping his voice not cold but warm, but not as soft as Maynards was. He also speaks a lot lower than usual, trying to make himself appear as different to the criminal as he can. Crouching down slowly, he shows the syringe clearly and waits until Kiara first looks at the needle, then at him.

"It's nothing bad, see?" Carefully slipping the needle into the vein, he injects himself slightly, immediately feeling the numbing effect, but he keeps it light. It's enough to show her what he intends to do. Only taking a few seconds, he changes the needle of the syringe, keeping it clearly visible all the time, and then looks up at Kiara.

"May I?" Slowly, carefully, she nods, and Mycroft injects her with the sedative.

Sherlock can feel when she is knocked out. Her body, already leaning heavily on him, suddenly becomes slack, making him stagger a step back, until he finds his balance again.

Inside Mycroft's bedroom, Mycroft takes off her hoodie and her shoes, leaving her in a top and her trousers, and pulls her into the bed, lying down slightly away from her and waiting for reaction.

After a few second she sluggishly reaches out and grips his shirt, pulling feebly, and comes closer to him.

Both of the Holmes-brothers look at their sleeping, exhausted friend and can't help but wonder what happened to make her so afraid. She is breathing a little deeper now, and the tears have stopped, but she is still trembling slightly.

When Sherlock leaves the room, turning the lights off and starting to shut the door, he hears Mycroft quiet voice behind him.

"Good night, Sherlock."

He turns around slowly, and looks at his brother, who is nearly invisible in the darkness.

"Good night, Mycroft."

And as the door slams shut, he hears Maynard's last words in his mind -

_Until next time, little one._


	54. Blood On My Knuckles

"What happened yesterday?" Mycroft asks at breakfast. We are eating slightly later than usual, as I slept longer, probably because of the sedatives. Somehow they had remembered about my high resistance and used strong ones.

It is the first time he asks, and I am grateful for the break I had, but I don't want to answer it now, either. I keep my head down and look at my plate, my hand holding my piece of bread slightly above it. Concentrating on chewing and swallowing the piece I have in my mouth, I contemplate what to say.

Telling them is not an option. I can feel the memories banging on the door of the cage I locked them in so long ago, and the lock is wobbling.

"I had a panic-attack." I know it won't satisfy him, but I still don't know what to do.

"Who is he?" I feel grateful for a moment that he doesn't say his name, even though it doesn't trigger as much. He used to be called differently. Just before I can give him another useless answer though, he specifies, "Who is he to you?"

I feel my walls breaking, so I drop my bread onto my plate and jump up, the legs of the chair scraping on the floor.

"I'm sorry. I -" I lick my lips, trying to find the right words as well as get away soon.

"I met him before. It's – I'm sorry." Feeling his and Sherlock's eyes on my back, I turn around and flee the room.

* * *

In less than an hour my knuckles are bruised and bleeding. I concentrate on the little bursts of pain, the continuity and repetitiveness almost evolving into a mantra, pushing me deep into a particular mindset that keeps me safe from my own thoughts.

I used to do this often when I was a kid. Sometimes at daytime, sometimes in the middle of the night. To this day I still have no idea how they knew, as they slept in a completely other part of the house, but most of the time Andy or David joined me. They would just take another punching bag, put it up and start exercising as well. Now and then I would stop after a few minutes and go to the little ring we had in the gym, and we would start fighting, hand to hand combat.

Looking back to it now, it had been dangerous for him. Very dangerous, as I'm not in control in these moments. The only thing I can concentrate on then is the feeling of hitting something, hurting someone. Well, not necessary hurting, but rather fighting. Physical exertion to distract me from what is going on in my head.

Sometimes we would just train next to each other and when I'd calmed down, I'd go upstairs without a comment.

Times like these are like a kick in the gut. It's been more than eighteen months even though it feels like much longer and much less in the same time. I can still see Father's smile, still know how he smells, still know how his voice sounded like.

Andy and David are different. I know how they look and sound and smell like, but there's something missing. Maybe it's because I don't know how they are. Do they still live in the house? For what? What happened to the house? Are they still alive? Do they worry about me?

Nearly a year. Nearly a year since I ran away to Paris and met Sherlock for the second time. A lot has changed since then, I saved their lives many times, so did they for me, so why can't I tell them? Why am I so afraid of letting the words drop from my lips like thick blood?

The memories threaten to come to the foreground of my mind and I focus again on the feeling of my fists hitting the rough material.

Mycroft comes in some minutes later and stands beside me, though with a safety distance, just watching me. I don't acknowledge him, waiting for him to speak first, as he obviously has something to say.

"Are you going to tell us what happened with Maynard?" I surprisingly don't flinch, still too deep in the mental state I have created for myself, but I keep hitting the punching back and wait for a few seconds before I respond.

"No."

He only nods, but I know he wants to ask further.

"Sherlock and I spoke about how to capture him."

This time I turn my head and stop hitting, taken aback.

"You want to  _capture_  him?"

"What would you do?"

"What do you think?" My voice is cold and clinical as I say this, and it's true. The day Maynard dies will be a happy one. I guess Sherlock and Mycroft wouldn't be so happy about that opinion, but that is Father's personality shining through.

"We want to question him about Moran's whereabouts. He is one of the best leads we have."

"I guess."

"We have an idea about how to do it, but..."

"But what?"

"The whole plan is without you. You won't come with us, you won't be there when we question him, you won't see him being taken to prison."

I think about that for a moment, and realise that he has given me a perfect way out. Even though seeing Maynard in prison or dead has been one of my dreams since I escaped him so long ago, this way I can just pretend he doesn't exist. He won't be able to make me panic like he did when we tried to kill him, or use me against Sherlock and Mycroft.

I straighten and flex my fingers and wince when my knuckles protest. The pain isn't welcome any more, it's just painful know and distracts me.

Mycroft must have noticed it as well, as he grips my fingers and inspects the broken skin. It isn't bleeding that badly any more, just some sluggish drops, but my fingers are dark red, turning brown, the blood on them already drying.

Without making a comment, he turns around and goes to the little first aid box in the corner, coming back with some bandages, a soft cloth and a disinfecting fluid. His brow furrows slightly in concentration while he is cleaning left hand, bandaging it afterwards and repeating the process on my right.

I just watch him and feel ashamed that I am not able to tell him what happened.

 


	55. Suicidal Criminal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter is dated on the 18th of February 2013.

10th March 2013 - Mycroft's POV:

The man in front of him is breathing steadily, slowly, in and out, and slowly sips his tea. It is disturbing how normal, if a little posh he looks, thinks Mycroft, how different to the person he was when they tried to capture him for the first time.

Finally, James Maynard puts down his cup and intwines his fingers, looking at Mycroft carefully.

"Well? What can I do for you, Mr Holmes?" He questions, looking sure of himself, as if it was him interrogating a prisoner, not Mycroft.

It is hard not to react to the manipulative behaviour, but, as he is proud to be able to say, there is a reason why Mycroft is called the iceman. Tilting his head to the side slightly, he looks over the criminal once again, scrutinising the man.

He is not as relaxed as he tries to look. The slight tension in his fingers, the barely visible narrowing of his eyes give him away.

"Tell me everything you know about the network which once belonged to the late Moriarty, and now to Sebastian Moran."

It is a risk to ask that question, he knows. To threaten the criminal with things like torture or mind games is useless, it is clear that he'll try that anyway. But maybe, he'll answer. And whatever he does, he'll give Mycroft an opening.

"Oh, I will." Maynard sounds so assured, so confident, that the politician raises an eyebrow questioningly.

"I will tell you anything you want to know – if it's Kiara who's asking. I'll answer her every question."

How is it that Maynard not only has such an effect on Kiara, but also knows how and when to use it? There is no real way out, the probability that he'll answer Mycroft now are minimal.

Storing the answer away in his mind for later thought, he concentrates on what he can ask with the chance of an answer.

"What happened between you and Kiara? What have you done to her?" His voice is steady, but for the first time Maynard sits up and looks at him with an interested sparkle in his eyes.

"She doesn't know you are asking me this, does she?" He asks, unlacing his fingers to put his hands together in front of his lips in a gesture so similar to Sherlock's that Mycroft frowns.

"Hasn't told you anything, and you want to know why."

"She hasn't said a word. Hides it even from herself." There is no point in lying, especially as Kiara will never see Maynard again, Mycroft wants to make sure of it.

"Again, I will answer every single one of Kiara's questions. But what happened is something she needs to tell you herself. It is a matter of trust, anyway." Mycroft looks at the man for another moment, ignoring the little jab. It is clear he won't get anything out of him for the moment, or this way, so there is no reason why he is still here.

Taking up the tea service, he nods lightly at the criminal and leaves. He still feels the stare of Maynard on his back when he is back home, walking from the garage to the house.

* * *

17th March 2013 - Kiara's POV:

"What have you done?" Mycroft storms into my room, his suit slightly creased, frowning.

I am just getting changed, luckily already in bra and jeans, searching for a top to wear. Awake enough to realise the situation quickly, I don't turn around. It's not as if he hasn't seen me in a sports-bra before, but that were different conditions. Besides, Mycroft looks pretty surprised as well – even though he must have known I'd be up. Or did he intend to wake me up?

"My – give me two minutes, okay?" He nods quickly, stumbling out of the door hurriedly, and I can't help but think about Father's names for them, how I got to know them. The iceman and the virgin. Mycroft and Sherlock. But doesn't fit virgin to Mycroft as well in a way? And is Sherlock not an iceman, now and then?

I find the top I was looking for and pull it over my head, choosing a hoody and quickly brushing my hair as well, until I open the door again.

"What's wrong?" Mycroft still looks a bit thrown of track, but he is catching on to his usual cool, collected self.

"What have you done to Maynard?" The question, that name, so early in the morning is unexpected and I flinch. We haven't spoken about him since the day Sherlock, Mycroft and some of the agents caught him. Their only comment had been a short notice to me at the dinner table, about two weeks ago.

"I – what?" I honestly have no idea what Mycroft is talking about, but he looks sceptical.

"Maynard has been found in his cell, dead. We're not sure yet what happened, but we're thinking poison, maybe suicide." I can feel my face falling. Maynard killed himself, maybe aided by someone else and instantly they think it was me – I've thought about it, I admit, but I had promised them and myself to keep out of it all.

"I haven't seen him for a month." I reply flatly, trying not to think about the day we first tried to capture Maynard. It's strange to remember how relatively relaxed and carefree I had been then, the old trauma buried deep inside me.

Mycroft looks at me for a few seconds, considering my answer, but finally nods.

"Okay. We still have a problem though – we have no lead from Moran, no idea where he is. Maynard killed himself without telling us anything."


	56. Irene

It is annoying how much the suicide stops us. He was our main lead, the one person we'd hoped would be able to tell us where Moran is. But no, now we'll have to find another way.

Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock comment on it again. We just keep searching, like we did it before Maynard and hope to find a note that'll help us pinpoint Moran's exact location – the ones we find are inconclusive, sometimes he vanishes for days on end, then he's in two places at once.

But I feel that something has changed. Sherlock is more tense, barely sleeps at all now and is even more rude that usual. Twice I even have to get up in the middle of the night to threaten to steal both his violin and his experiments and hide them for days if he doesn't stop torturing the poor instrument to make it sound like a dying cat.. The first time he doesn't, and Mycroft helps me to hide the violin, even though Sherlock finds it five hours later. Well, at least five hours, I had expected less time.

It is something unexpected that gives me an idea. Irene calls, and Sherlock answers my phone, as he was currently searching in my network-app. Whatever Irene says, I decide that it's punishment enough for answering my phone – Sherlock stiffens, and says shortly after saying a simple 'yes' when he answered a disinterested "I'm still not hungry, Irene."

I turn my head so quickly that I hear a strange popping sound, but it doesn't hurt so I don't stop jumping up and snatching the phone out of Sherlock's hands.

"Irene?"

"Kiara, it's been so long!" I can't help but laugh at her slightly exaggerated voice – I know she's confident and calm and seductive to other people but she behaves very differently when it's just us two.

"Only about four months," I answer with a smile and notice with a slight feeling of shame that I haven't thought much about her.

"Yes, but a) that's a third of a year and b) that weren't exactly the best conditions." That makes me sober up quickly. Irene and I didn't really see each other after Scottson let her go, only for a few hours in which I was completely in shock and not thinking straight. After that we had decided to part ways, hoping to keep her safe and distract Mycroft.

Mycroft. Memories suddenly flood my brain, how angry he had been and how much I had feared him in the five weeks after shooting Sherlock.

"Kiara? Kiara!" I can hear in Irene's voice that she said my name a few times, a slightly annoyed but also quite worried tone crept into her voice.

"I'm sorry, yes?"

"Are you alright?"

"Lost in thought, sorry – what did you want to say?"

"I asked how much of the web is left." Hesitating for a moment, I think about what to tell her. Can I trust her this much?

A second later I want to slap myself. When has she ever done anything that indicated she'd betray us?

"Moran." The other end of the line is silent for a minute, I can only hear her breathe.

"It's over soon, isn't it?" She asks, and Im not sure what she means. Our quest to detroy the web? My companionship with Sherlock and Mycroft? Or does she mean me – my life? There is always another meaning behind her words, but for once, I cannot decipher it.

"I don't know. Maybe?"

"Nice to know you know what you're doing." Irene laughs quietly to herself and I can't help smiling as well. She has this way of making me smile, always had.

"What did you really call me for?" I ask, remembering that she is not the person to call randomly.

"I called Sherlock." She replies, but I know she's just beating around the bush.

"You called my phone. Why?"

"Can I not just call you to chat with you?" I hide my smile, even though she can't see me, and quickly look at Mycroft and Sherlock. The latter is currently looking me, frowning slightly, obviously trying to deduce Irene's words. Mycroft is focused on the files he's reading, but he looks up every few seconds.

"You can, but you usually don't." She laughs loudly now, but only for a second, before she quietens down. That exactly worries me, though. Why did she quieten down? Is she in danger?

"Fine. I need your help." She doesn't sound too hurried, so I decide that she's not in iminent danger – but I know not to take this lightly. Irene wouldn't call me if I wasn't urgent.

"Can we meet somewhere here in London?" I want to get out of the house. I wasn't outside freely for some weeks, walking outside seemed too dangerous – what if Moran, or Maynard, or Dr Watson saw me? And besides, those of the police who know who I am, so basically DI Lestrade and the dark-skinned woman and maybe a few others, would arrest me on sight.

"I have some time, yes. What would you suggest?"

We discuss quickly where to go. Only when I hang up I realise we meet at the little café I met up with Melissandre when she found out who I am.

Speaking of Melissandre, I don't see her that much these days. She's currently on holidays, Mycroft didn't want to have to distract her as well. We sometimes text, and even rarer meet for coffee and a quick chat, but not that often. I make a mental note to text her when I come back tonight.

* * *

Irene looks well. One might have thought she'd be stressed, being in trouble, but she doesn't show it. Instead, we sit in the café and chat about every-day matters. Well – they are not every day for most people, but for us they are: The criminal world of England, and even more so in London is simple. Kill or be killed.

As it turns out, Irene is not in that much trouble. Of course, Moran is searching for her, probably to repeat Scottson's little blackmailing trick, but only half-heartedly and doesn't waste much money on it. It's rather that she has no place to stay – no place she wants to stay. Some clients already offered her places, but as she said, that's different. She doesn't trust them.

"So basically you want to stay with us." I state, but smiling, so she knows that I don't really mind her manipulating me.

"I want to stay with you, but the Holmes-brothers are a nice benefit. I'd never have thought I would meet them again, staying in one building with Sherlock, or him staying with his brother, voluntarily." Smiling softly, I nod. She had told me about her adventure with Sherlock, back when I hadn't known him personally. I had hated him then, for being Father's nemesis and for abandoning Irene in that horrible position, but I had also laughed about his failure to recognize the game Irene had played.

"He hasn't got that many other choices, does he? Anyway, I don't know how they'll react, I'll have to ask My. And I can't promise anything, Belgravia doesn't matter, but it's because of you that I shot Sherlock, so..." I feel my mood getting worse. I'm very happy Mycroft and I get along well again, but I don't want to risk it too much.

But as it seems, Irene has already got something else on her mind. She looks me up and down critically, and suddenly I feel self-conscious.

"It's your birthday tomorrow, isn't it?" She asks and I realise what date it is. The 26th of March, yes of course, she's right!

"Erm – yes?"

"You forgot it, didn't you?" Irene laughs and I can't help giggling myself.

"One day away from freedom and adulthood and you forget it!" It feels good to be really laughing again, with a woman. I enjoy living and working with Sherlock and Mycroft, but there are some things you need a woman for.

Pulling out my fake ID, I show her the date – Kiara Josephina Johnson is already twenty, tomorrow twenty-one.

"I am grown-up, actually – you see, I can brush my teeth on my own." We erupt in giggles once more, and some of the other customers look at us disapprovingly.

"Do Sherlock and Mycroft know?" Irene asks once we sober up.

"I'm not sure – I haven't told them but they're geniuses, so..."

"Doesn't matter – Your clothes look like they are at least two years old, what have you done to them?" I smile when I imagine her reaction to my answer.

"I've worn them – and they don't just look like they are two years old, they are." Her reaction is even better than imagined, a mixture of shock, surprise, disappointment and then determination flits over her face.

"That settles it – we are going shopping." She states, with such an expression of happiness and excitement that I fake-groan.

 


	57. Denmark

_The first strange thing is the lack of fear in their eyes. Then they look slightly surprised, scanning the space around Father and me for something, as if they are looking for another person._

_I find that I don't like waiting in line, but Father takes my hand and smiles at me, so I obediently stay next to him. The persons in front of us don't make space for us. They don't offer us their place and don't step to the side in fear, no, they simply look bored and they where they are, with the small shuffle forwards now and then._

_Father smiles when I ask him why, and crouches down so he is at eye-level with me._

" _They don't do that because they don't know me." he says, and I frown. How can they not know him? Everyone knows Father, and everyone is scared of him and obeys him. Everyone but me. Well, I do obey, but I can't understand why they are scared of him. He only punishes them when they do something wrong, so the solution is simple – don't do anything wrong._

" _I wanted to go on a real holiday with you, Spitfire. That's why we're here in Denmark. I'm not so influential here, so we can just do what we want, and the people will be genuinely nice to us." Looking at him, I nod. He looks different than he usually does, today with a London-cap, jeans and a simple shirt. They are designer, Father only wears designer clothes, but look casually cheap._

_When we are finally in front of the desk, I have to stand on the tip of my toes to look over the help-desk. Behind the lady sitting there is a big mirror, and I can see myself in it._

" _Is there anyone else travelling with you? Your wife, girlfriend?" Father's hand on mine tenses slightly, but when I look at him, he's still smiling._

" _No, it's just me and my daughter, I don't have a wife." He answers, and the lady nods, although she still seems sceptical._

" _We're fine, thank you." Father obviously noticed as well, and even though I don't understand what's going on, his voice is audibly sharper. Had they known who he is, they would all have shivered by now, but the lady just lifts her hands slightly to apologize and gives Father his change._

" _Have a nice day," she says, and Father nods, leading me back to our camping-car._

" _Why was she suddenly so mean to you?" The words escape my mouth before I can form them the way I want to, so they sound a little wobbly. I can feel the familiar prickling sensation in my eyes and after two seconds everything is blurry with, at least for now, unshed tears._

_I hear, rather than see him crouching down in front of me once more._

" _What do you mean, she was mean to me?" He asks, his voice soft, touching my cheek lightly._

" _You suddenly tensed, I don't know what happened." I couldn't stop the tears any longer, rolling down my cheeks in big, heavy drops._

_Suddenly he's hugging me, rocking me slightly, while the shoulder of his shirt gets wet and snotty._

" _Shhhhh, it's all right, calm down. Shhhhh." He keeps soothing me until I stop crying, only hiccuping now and then, and moves back a bit to look into my eyes._

" _She was confused because there's nobody else, just us two. See, you look like you're eight or nine, even though you are six -"_

" _And a quarter," I interrupt him, snuffling lightly. He smiles at me with his special smile and nods._

" _Okay, six years and five months and three days old, and I'm twenty-six. She's curious why I have you with me, without anyone else, without a mother. She was worried for you." I frown, and think through his words once more._

" _What do I need a mother for?" An emotion crosses his face so swiftly that I can't recognize it, it might have been anger and sadness or happiness, then he smiles at me mysteriously._

" _We've got each other, right?" I nod, lifting my left hand to wipe my face. "We don't need anyone else."_

* * *

_The water is cold but sparkles as I run through it, the waves splashing against my legs, probably washing off the sun-cream which Father had insisted on. The sand is smooth beneath my feet, and the water makes it move, so it's a bit dangerous, but that is what makes it so funny for me. Father has taken off his shoes as well, and he is just as far in the water as I am, but it only reaches to slightly above his ankles. Suddenly, the sand beneath my feet is not there, washed away by the waves, and I fall in the water, my shorts and t-shirt getting wet._

_Father is at my side in an instant, crouching down, helping me sit up, checking me for injuries with a worried expression. When he finally looks into my eyes, I start smiling, and suddenly splash with water so his shirt gets wet and salty. I giggle when I see his surprised face and when he laughs as well, I can't stop._

_Picking me up, standing up and raising me above his head, Father starts turning on the spot, holding me tightly while I'm flying through the air._

_He is already wet, so the water splashing up doesn't bother him any more, he is just looking up to me. I spread my arms so it really feels like flying, my hair is tousling everywhere, and when I look down at him, he is laughing. His face is so open, his eyes full of joy, that I realise it's not only me who needs a holiday._

* * *

I open my eyes to the relative darkness of Mycroft's room, and feel that even though he is still sleeping deeply, a part of his t-shirt and my face are wet with tears.


	58. Trapped

Mycroft wakes soon after, but luckily doesn't comment on it. For some reason we just stay like that, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, his arm around my shoulders, and I relish in the safety it provides – this would have been unthinkable a bit more than two months ago. Against all reasoning, defying the probabilities of this happening, Mycroft and I fixed the friendship we had before I shot Sherlock, and this time I know exactly how much it's worth.

Irene is sleeping in my room when I go there to get changed, but wakes as soon as I'm in the room. Mycroft begrudgingly agreed to let her stay here, mostly because I said she'd probably be able to help, but I know that he doesn't want her here. I offered her my bed, since I don't really sleep there any more, and ignored her curious raised eyebrow when I said I sleep in Mycroft's room.

The atmosphere is slightly strange when we're sitting at the table at breakfast, Irene looking around seductively and eating just the same way. Sherlock and Mycroft both do their best to ignore her, but I can sense she makes them uncomfortable and have to suppress a giggle every few minutes.

* * *

But later, we're sitting in Mycroft's study, Irene sitting on the armrest of my chair, leaning over me, she is serious. It is amazing to see her like this as well, when she lets her intelligence shine through. She is not just some woman who sells her body. She is Irene Adler, The Woman, whose life is in danger if she can't help us – and help us she does. Now and then she leaves the room and calls some of her clients, stealing my laptop as soon as she comes back inside and checks and rechecks the informations she gathers.

Mycroft and Sherlock don't exactly warm up to her. But they seem to accept her, at least as my friend, and notice how much she is helping us – they talk to her and comment on things she finds out, without any hint of sarcasm in their voices.

But one time, when Irene comes back in, she doesn't take my laptop which I hold towards her. Her grey eyes linger on my face, obviously deep in thought, and she stays on her spot, only a few steps inside the room, for more than a minute. She doesn't look at me the whole time, also turning around twice and looking at Sherlock and Mycroft thoughtfully.

I know she has an idea, so I put the laptop on the table and get up, walking towards her, but waiting until she stands still and her gaze focuses on me, really seeing me and not so far away any more.

"Do you remember Margery Grey?" She asks, her voice still soft, still lost in her realisation.

I remember Margery. She had been one of Father's friends, if you could call them that. She was rather one he trusted, more than most, and one he had known for quite some time. Margery Grey was a name that floated in most of my childhood memories; Father didn't like me not being with him when I was younger, but when she was there, looking after me, it was acceptable.

I don't know what happened, but at some point Margery just disappeared. Suddenly I remember something else and start shivering, trying to keep the memories in check – she had left not long after my encounter with Maynard. She had been with me when Maynard took me, beating her unconscious, and even though Father didn't blame her for it, she left.

"Kiara? Kiara?" It takes a few seconds to realise I'm shaking, sitting on the floor, my back to the wall, two metres away from where I previously stood. My hands are in front of my face and I am biting my lip, avoiding the eyes of Mycroft, who is crouching down in front of me, having called my name.

"I remember her." I whisper, trying to think about something else but  _Maynard, Maynard, Maynard_.

" _You see, little one, I beat the woman unconscious, but I took your friend. Do you think I can make him scream?"_ The words float through my head and I press my hands against my eyes, hard, hoping to get away from those words, those memories.

Sherlock and Irene are standing behind Mycroft and somehow, maybe because of the lightening, they seem looming. The memory they trigger is different, very different, but still haunts me. I can see Maynard in front of me, much taller than me, looming over me.

Mycroft touches my hand and the images blur, reminding me that Maynard is dead but not at all calming me down. I can't hear their voices any more, I just see them coming closer and I feel trapped, feel caged, feel  _small_.

The next bit is instinct. Lashing out, I scramble away from them, seeing them stumble or fall or clutch their stomachs almost in slow-motion, me trying to stand. I stumble as well, the memories all flying at me, banging against the insides of my head, trying to crush me with their weights.

Someone is coming closer to me again, and I don't see faces, I just see  _Maynard, Maynard, Maynard_  and kick his head, feeling the resistance breaking, the body going slack. I watch Maynard falling to the floor, his head with strangely ginger hair hitting the ground, sense the other two persons in the room and assume fighting stance, but neither of them seem threatening – one of them is crouching down next to the unconscious Maynard, the other one is raising his hands, his body-language peaceful.

The room is blurring, my gaze flitting across the walls to find the door that's on my right. The door is close, I know where I can escape, but there are still two people in this room who are dangerous to me, so I check them once again – they are still where they were only seconds before, still far enough away, so I turn to get outside.

The memories, screams, crying, Maynard's voice still echo through my head so I can't hear what's happening behind me. Suddenly, two strong arms grip my hands, their right hand my left and their left my right, holding me tight to his chest, trapping me between his body and my arms and I struggle to get free.

The voice of my attacker is not audible because of Maynard's voice, but I feel his chest rumbling and know he is speaking. I also know I am screaming at him to let me go, threatening him with the most painful death I can imagine, but he doesn't relent, just shifts to hold me tighter.

This gives me an opening. Flipping my foot up, I kick him between his legs and he lets me go instantly, doubling over, but I'm not sure how fast he'll recover, so I grip his shirt-collar similar to the way Daunt killed me and twist my wrists to interrupt the blood-flow to his brain.

There is something holding me back, keeping me from holding my attacker like this for more than half a minute, keeping me from risking serious brain damage or death, so I loosen my grip a few seconds after his fingers stop scratching at my hands. I let him drop to the ground and whirl around to the third person in the room. She is still kneeling on the floor, but holds a gun in her hands, pointed directly at my head. The distance to her is too far to just jump at her and wrestle it from her grasp, but I still have a bargaining chip – I step to the side and rest my left foot on the neck of the person I just choked, pressing down slightly when I feel him stirring.

The woman says something which I can't hear, but motions with the gun towards the door. Is she telling me to leave? Allowing me to go?

The man beneath my foot is moving again, waking up, and I press down more forcefully while I consider my chances. We're at a stale-mate right now, and there is the door.

I look down at the man who is reaching with his hands towards my foot, trying to unbalance me, and I make my decision.

This time, I use my toes to kick someone unconscious and I decide to not do that again without wearing boots, as it hurts like hell, but the man isn't moving any more and the woman is pointing at the door.

Walking backwards, I navigate through the familiar room towards the door, looking at the gun the whole time, until finally I'm out. I have no idea where I'm going, I'm just running, trying to flee the room and the memories and  _Maynard_  and even though I know not to run up when you're trying to flee I storm up stairs now and then. At some point I just fall down and can't get up again, the voices in my head screaming.


	59. Apologies

I open my eyes slowly, my head throbbing, and see almost nothing. After a few seconds I realise the curtains are closed and the light is only barely on, and I look around for someone to sit here. After all, who would let the lights on in a room with a sleeping person?

Mycroft watches me with a wary expression, a small gauze swab taped to his temple. What happened? Why was I sleeping even though the alarm clock next to me reads four pm?

"Mycroft, what's going on?" My voice is croaky, like I screamed loudly and it confuses me even more.

"Kiara, do you remember what you did?" He asks quietly, and I frown. He didn't have a hurt head this morning, when I got up, neither when we had breakfast nor when we were in his study, researching, Irene asking about -

"Margery Grey." I whisper, all the pieces slotting into place, and I remember what happened.

I want to reach up, want to touch his chin to make him turn his head to inspect the wound on his head I now know I'm responsible for, but I find myself unable to move my arms. Looking up, I see that they are tied to the headboard, constricting me, and I pull at them, only to find them expertly tied, without any give of the rope.

I raise my eyebrow at Mycroft and he sighs, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

"We weren't sure how you'd react when you woke up – whether you'd still be caught in your memories." I nod, relaxing my arms and breathing in and out slowly, fighting the memories of Maynard back into their black little corner of my mind.

"Are you – are you okay?" My voice is barely a whisper, and I remember Sherlock's hands desperately trying to stop me from choking him. Suddenly I feel the need to shower and to wash my hands extra hard. I can still feel his fingers trying to pry my fingers away from his neck and then finally going still, and I nearly gag. My memories made him a lackey of Maynard, so I didn't really see his eyes, but I can imagine how he felt – being choked to death by a friend, and I'm sure I've not looked sad while doing it.

"Miss Adler is a bit shaken, she pointed the gun at you and threatened to shoot you if you didn't go after Sherlock tried to calm you down, but mostly she is fine. Sherlock doesn't have that much luck." I close my eyes in horror but keep listening to Mycroft, who paused a little, noticing how disturbed I feel.

"His head is hurt like mine, and he has bruises on his neck, making breathing a bit painful for him – he twisted his foot when you dropped him as well. Also all of us have bruises from when you hit us the first time."

Swallowing, I open my eyes again to look at him. He seems shaken as well, but mostly fine – even though I can imagine the head-ache he must have from being kicked unconscious and hitting his head on the floor.

"Sherlock tried to calm me down?" Mycroft only nods, but I am not satisfied. "He tried to calm me down even though I was obviously not recognizing you and ready to hurt you?" The disbelief in my voice is obvious and Mycroft smiles, but it's a sad smile.

"He was worried you'd get hurt if you left the house. He hoped you'd calm down, or at least to be able to keep you in here. That is why none of us directly defended ourselves – we didn't want you to get hurt. Which is also why Miss Adler used the gun that late, knowing that if you got close to her you'd have taken the gun and shot her without a second thought."

I close my eyes again, wanting to deny this but knowing it's true. When I open them again, I look at Mycroft who is not looking at me, and my throat feels constricted, as if I was the one who had been choked, not Sherlock.

"I'm sorry." I say and I can feel the familiar prick of tears in my eyes. He turns his head and looks at me and nods.

We don't talk for a few minutes, until he shakes his head, seemingly remembering something, and gets up to loosen the rope tying my hands together.

"Don't." I say as soon as I realise what he wants to do, and he looks at me, surprised.

"There was a reason you took this precaution, it's not over yet." He just looks at me contemplating, so I continue. "I don't want anything to happen when I see Sherlock or Irene. Anything could trigger another panic-attack right now, and I don't want to risk killing you for real this time."

He nods again and turns towards the door. Only now I realise I'm in his room, in his bed, and I wonder why I'm here, not in my room.

As if he read my mind, he answers, not looking at me, "We found you inside this room, on the floor. We decided it'd be safest for you and us if you stayed here, as you were still moving and still obviously trapped by the flash-back."

Why did I run to his room, and not to mine, when his is further away from the stairs I blurredly remember running up?

Just as he's nearly reached the door, I call out one more time.

"My?" He turns his head so I can see his profile to show me he's listening and stops, his hand already on the door-knob. "How do you know what happened even though you were unconscious?"

"Because they told me what happened. Shall I send one of them in?" When I nod, he leaves the room. I lie on the bed, my arms still tied over my head, and every few seconds I pull on them. The rough feeling of them on my skin keeps me in the present, helps me fight of the memories.

Sherlock's limp is visible as soon as he opens the room, but neither of us mention it when he walks to the windows and opens the curtains. Because of the sudden brightness I have to blink twice until I can see again and in that time he moved over to sit next to me, where Mycroft sat before. He has big bruises on his neck, colouring the usually so pale skin red and purple and blue and I wince when he swallows.

"Hey Sherlock," I sound quiet and regretful, but Sherlock doesn't answer. He just looks at me, deducing me, and I feel uncomfortable. I can't figure out what he's thinking.

"Mycroft didn't free you?" He asks after a few minutes, even though it's more a statement than a question. His voice is rough and I don't want to imagine how bad it must have been directly after he woke up, a few hours ago.

"I didn't want him to." Sherlock doesn't ask further, just keeps deducing. After some time I start to feel really uncomfortable, so I break the silence again.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." Now he looks directly into my eyes and seems to find what he's looking for.

"I know." It feels not finished to me, it feels like I need to apologize again, but I don't know how to say it.

"What triggered it?" He asks, and pulls me out of my thoughts.

"The name. Margery Grey was one of the few people Father trusted. When I was younger she'd always be there when Father wasn't – she left after I met Maynard for the first time. She felt responsible."

"What happened?" I know he's asking for what Maynard did to me, but I can't talk about it – not now, when the memories are finally staying mostly in their dark little corner, so I shake my head.

He finally gets up, and touches the ropes that are tying me to the bed. Without any attempt of loosening them, he just inspects them, once bending my wrist back a little. I wince when he touches the skin on which the rope rubbed – it feels raw and stings.

Suddenly he turns and leaves without another word and I am left to wonder what he's really thinking.

The first thing Irene does when she enters is get rid of the ropes. I try to explain her why I feel safer with them, but she just ignores me. My arms ache when I move them to a more comfortable position, and I frown when I see just how red my wrists are.

"You were struggling and twisting all the time. It took hours until you'd finally calmed down. And I don't care that you feel safer with the ropes, it's not good for your wrists and besides," she lifts a little syringe and I recognize it as mine, with the paralyser, "I have this. It works fast enough, doesn't it?" I nod and close my eyes, suddenly I feel horrible – well, worse than before. I can imagine how it must have felt for all of them, me not recognizing them and being ready to kill them.

"Sherlock told me what happened." I look up to her, waiting for her to say more, to ask for the full story – after all, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft know everything.

"I'm guessing you met him when you were younger. Was that why Margery left?"

"She blamed herself, even though Father didn't." She nods and thinks for a second, then smiles.

"You're not going to tell me what happened when you met Maynard, are you?" I look into her face, the so familiar look of mysterious knowing on her face, and I think about it. But it is like it was with Sherlock and Mycroft. It's not that I don't trust them, I just can't say it. Whenever I open my mouth to say it, to recall these memories, I feel choked.

"No." I answer quietly and curse myself. I told Father once, so why is it so hard? Why do I feel like it's important not to say anything, why is it impossible to tell the people I trust most the truth?

Irene nods once more and then smiles. "It wasn't a great birthday, was it?" I have to smile at her comment. She's right, I've had better, but her comment helps to get my mind away from what happened today.

I sit up slowly and smile reassuringly to Irene, who looked worriedly at the syringe in her hands. I feel better, and I want to follow the train of thought Irene had. Margery Grey left when I was a young child. But that doesn't mean she's completely out of the criminal world. She was still very high up and Father worked with her now and then, so who says she doesn't know where Moran is?

I hug Irene and feel her stiffen, but I hold on and don't do anything else so she relaxes and hugs me back.

"I'm sorry." I whisper in her ear and she holds me tighter.

"It's all forgiven, Sweetie." She answers and I feel insanely grateful for it.


	60. The North Of Germany

The next three days are tense. We don't talk about it at all, but I notice that there's always at least two of them in a room with me – and there's always a syringe nearby. I pretend not to notice, and they pretend not to notice that I notice, so we're mostly fine.

I still sleep in Mycroft's room. He as well has a syringe ready, as well as a button he can push if something happens, which alerts Irene and Sherlock.

It hurts to have them all so wary of me, to see them all going alert and tense when I move too quickly, but I understand why they behave this way. And I'm grateful they are as nice with it as they are.

We decide to visit Margery. She lives in Germany, quite far in the north near the sea and with the flight we're planning to take it takes roughly a day to get there. It's Irene, Sherlock and me who are going, even though I don't like Mycroft staying at home, I can understand. Irene wants to stay in Germany when we're finished and none of us want me to flash-back when I'm alone, and Maycroft says he wants to do some work.

* * *

We leave on the thirty-first of March. The sun is shining brightly and the flights are okay. That changes when we arrive in Germany though. In Munich the sky is just grey and it's cold, but at the second airport, Bremen, it's raining and uncomfortable.

Sherlock leads us confidentially through the airport to a rented car Mycroft organized. I watch the landscape as we drive north. I have been in Germany before, and speak German fluently, but I've never been this far north. It's flatter than the south and I find it strange every time to get used to driving on the right side of the road.

When we enter the little town Margery lives in for the first time, the first thing that greets me is a big McDonald's. I shake my head in annoyance, how could such a nice little city destroy the view of their entrance like that?

Five minutes later we're driving past a nice little church and then a school, where most of the students are just leaving. None of them wear uniforms though, and it takes a second for me to remember that in Germany nobody wears uniforms.

We're all tired when we reach the little hotel we are staying in, it's not particularly big or luxurious, but at least it's a place to stay. The rooms we took are separate, but directly next to each other, in case something happens. Neither of us is happy to be so vulnerable though.

It's late, even later than it feels like because of the extra hour, as we're in a different time zone, so we just stay in the hotel. After a few minutes alone in my room I get bored and go to Sherlock's, while he quietly plays the violin.

* * *

We spend the first six days securing and exploring the city. Sherlock wants to memorise that streets, in case something happens, and none of us want higher up criminals here, we can't risk them interrupting us with Margery.

Irene and I are less interested in the layout of the city, we enjoy seeing everything. I quite like the local market they have on Wednesdays and Saturdays, both times stealing money from Sherlock and buying more than we really need.

But not everything is pleasant. As in London, I like walking through the streets, especially at night. This city isn't as complex, there aren't that many side-alleys or paths, and it's less chaotic, but the moon and stars are more visible than ever in London, maybe because there are less lights and less pollution. The little forest which is at the edge of the city is beautiful, it's small, but alive, fresh.

I don't notice the men behind me until it's nearly too late. Turning around, I see the three men, roughly in their late thirties, and I can smell the alcohol in their breaths.

"Hey honey," the tallest one of them says in a rather smooth northern German dialect, trying to grab my hand and laughing when I flinch back.

"Come on – we just want to have some fun," I look to both sides where the other two men are trying to get behind me.

"I don't. Leave me alone." I reply calmly in German, glad that they don't trigger a flash-back. On the other hand, they are not that threatening.

"Oh, how sweet. Where are you from, little bird?" He says, grinning to himself as he hears my accent. They are all coming closer, and then I feel a hand on my bum. I have to smile when I think of a similar but still so different situation, Sherlock and me kissing in Russia.

When the first man decides to reach for my breast, I decide it's enough. Grabbing his hand, I twist quickly and he cries out, nearly flipping when I twist even further. The hand which now nearly is in between my legs hesitates a bit, when he finally drops his hand his nose is bleeding profusely and he is coughing, a well-placed hit to the throat makes him fall backwards. The third man is backing away just as my foot connects with the first man's temple, knocking him out, but I don't let him. He doubles over after a kick to the stomach.

All three are on the ground, two of them groaning, the other one unconscious, and I call the police – I don't want them to get hurt even more and besides, even though they won't believe my claim of nearly getting raped, when these men are at court for something else, it'll come up.

The lady on the phone tells me to go to the nearest open local place, which is a restaurant three-hundred metres away, and wait there for them. As soon as she hangs up, I crouch down and look the third man in the eye.

"I'm from England, by the way. And this happens, when you attack girls." He nods, trying to move away from me, but I simply smile.

I walk past the restaurant to our hotel, fixing my clothes so the attempted assault is not directly visible, and hide me smile inside. I didn't flash-back. And even though it seems a small accomplishment, it shows that I am capable of fighting again.

* * *

"Are you sure this is the right house?" I ask, looking up and down the dirty yellow façade. The house is big, containing four flats, the tiny garden in front of it and the letterboxes old and unkempt. It doesn't look like a place the Margery I knew would have lived in. She had insisted on tidiness and

cleanliness, making me tidy my room and brush my hair at least twice a day. I smile fondly when I remember that particular mannerism – on the other hand, my hair had been a lot messier then, curling and flying everywhere and being a mess at the end of a day. It is one of the things I she taught me which I still do – my hair isn't that wild any more, but it isn't straight either.

Sherlock rolls his eyes for the third time, and sighs.

"Are you sure she'll be able to help us?" Now it's my turn to sigh.

"Yes." He just nods and smirks, and we wait for her to answer the ring. I know I should trust Sherlock when he says this is where she lives, but she has taken a different name; Laura Smith is written in a messy scrawl beneath the doorbell, so there is a tiny seed of doubt.

"Hello?" The speaker is bad, there is a loud rushing sound as well as her voice, but it's her. She sounds more tired than before, and definitely older. On the other hand, it's been more than eight years since I last saw her.

"Margery Grey?" I answer, hoping she might recognize my voice. Behind me Sherlock is giving Irene a syringe with my paralyser, and I can hear them talking quietly. Sherlock is not coming in with us, even though we're hoping Margery can help us, we don't want to risk her telling anyone about him.

"Who's there?" She asks in German, sounding angry, but I know this is the key to getting her to talk to us.

"Are you Margery Grey?" I keep talking in English, it's no use to talk in German, especially if any and everybody casually walking by could understand me.

"Who are you?" She growls, now also in English, and I smile. This is really her. The excitement is bubbling in my chest and I force myself not to laugh.

"Moriarty." I say it quietly, hoping not everyone will hear, but still confidentially. Whether she believes me or will just want to kill me is not something I'm sure about, but it's a risk I'm willing to take, especially if she knows where Moran is.

There is silence for a moment, then there is a buzzing sound and I push at the door, opening it. Irene stops talking with Sherlock, coming to enter as well, and Sherlock nods, tight-lipped.

"We'll call you when there's trouble, okay?" My voice is softer than planned, and his eyes narrow. He doesn't want any pity, even though it wasn't meant that way.

I look at him for another second, then turn around and walk into the house, Irene directly behind me.


	61. Margery Grey, Moran and the Rat

I'm not quite sure what to expect when I slowly climb up the stairs to the second floor. As far as I can see, everything here is safe, and Margery wouldn't live somewhere where she couldn't defend herself. She has always been careful, always took more safety precautions than necessary, which probably saved her life a few times.

The door is in a dirty white, there are no decorations anywhere, and I frown. She never was a flowery person, but she lives her for quite some time now – and she used to be a very clean, tidy person. On the other hand, as a part-time assassin you probably had to be.

Just as I raise my hand to knock, the door opens and I'm pulled inside. Fighting my instincts to lash out, I let myself be slammed against the wall and don't flinch away from the gun pressed to my forehead, slightly above my nose.

Margery looks older, more tired, but there is still that familiar look of determination on her face. But other than that, I try to compare her to the image I have of her in my memories and find she hasn't changed much. Her slightly shorter than elbow length blonde hair is pulled back in a pony tail, some streaks are dyed in a light brown, but I can also see the grey hairs that come with age – she must be in her early to mid forties now.

Her stormy grey eyes are narrowed, her nose still thin but slightly crooked. It wasn't before, so it must have happened after she left.

It is strange to be nearly the same height as her. She is still taller, only minimally, but I always had to look up to her – on the other hand, the last time I saw her before today I was ten.

"Kiara?" She whispers after a minute, the tension leaving her slightly, and I nod, unsure what to say.

Her eyes scan my face for another few seconds, slowly taking the gun away from my forehead, then she touches my cheek just like Father used to do, and I have the urge to close my eyes. It feels safe, even though it's been so long, and for a short moment I long to be the little girl again.

"Really sorry to interrupt, but don't we have something to do?" Irene's voice cuts through the air and lifts the spell that wove around Margery and me.

She shakes her head as well, as if to shake away her thoughts like a fly, and moves backwards, letting me step away from the wall and Irene come in.

"What do you want?" The criminal questions, leaning out of the doorway and looking to both sides, and then pulling back and closing the door.

"We need your help."

* * *

Most of the next five days we spend wandering around in the little town, visiting the sea (which doesn't have beautiful simple sandy beaches and blue sea, but sea ooze and it stinks. It's still nice there though, and it feels like a real holiday.

We don't see Margery much, even though I visit her as much as I can, as we don't want to draw attention on us – despite me wanting to see her as much as possible. It's different now, though, it's more equal than eight years ago.

I visit the local market again on Saturday the thirteenth. Sherlock comes with me, gritting his teeth and growling the whole time, but Irene is looking for a place to stay. She decided to stay here in this town, so she's not here with me.

It's hard to convince him, but after some time, and a lot of just walking away, Sherlock agrees to go to the bookshop again, and after that to some other places – I offered to go to the police with him to stave off the boredom, but he turned around as soon as he saw the building. "The stupidity might be infectious."

* * *

It's late, nearly ten o'clock when we finally head back to the hotel we stay at. It's not that far away, even though we went to the end of the city, barely twenty minutes by foot, so we simply walk. It'd be hard to do anything else, anyway, as there are no cabs driving around here, and the bus won't come for more than half an hour.

We notice the three persons behind us two minutes after we started walking, they are good, nearly not noticeable, but both Sherlock and I have more practise in spotting shadows than most.

When I look at him, he nods at me to confirm the suspicion, which leaves both of us with not much more than before – we might know now we are being followed, but the city is so small, and we are in one of the richer parts, that there aren't really side-alleys to disappear in, only a more or less quiet corner ten metres ahead. It's in times like this when I love my habit to just walk though cities when I enter them. Just as it was with Lestrade, it's very useful to know them.

Without talking to each other at all, both of us turn when we've reached the little street and walk a few more metres, and stop, waiting for our shadows. For a few seconds we only hear their careful, quiet steps, then they turn the corner and chaos breaks loose.

There were three people following us, all of them middle height, two of them bulky with wide shoulders, the third more slender, more agile. I instantly know it's the third one who is dangerous – the other two might have powerful punches which can quickly knock you down, but he's the quick one, the one who'll get close to you and stab you before you can do anything, and somehow the name Rat pops up in my head.

It's very messy and very hard to not loose the orientation, and for a moment I feel sorry for Sherlock, who's taking on both of the big guys, until I realise I rather have to feel sorry for myself when the Rat lunges for me.

The guns are very quick to fall to the ground, hit out of the other's fist or dropped when not usable because of the constant movement.

Even though its life or death now, it's strangely exhilarating to fight. The amount of adrenaline currently racing through my body makes me nearly unable to feel pain and gives me the feeling of invincibility.

I loose track of the time, I have no idea how long we are already fighting, but sometime after my opponent slashes my cheek slightly Sherlock comes to help me. Without turning around, I know that the other two people are either dead or unconscious.

It quickly becomes visible though, that this guy is a master in many martial arts – ripping out another knife, he fights us both and has to walk backwards only slowly.

Maybe it's a sign of how well Sherlock and I know each other. Maybe it's because we're both in a particular mindset. Maybe it's just a coincidence.

Sherlock attacks, and when the Rat defends himself, lashing out himself, Sherlock leaves a hole in his defence. Somehow, we've come quite close to the wall of a house, and the Rat stabs his knife through Sherlock's right hand.

He shouts in pain, but at that exact moment I am able to use the pommel of my knife and break through our opponent's defence: It hits his temple and he stiffens, another hit makes him drop to the ground.

Sherlock pulls the knife out of his hand, which starts bleeding heavily, growling and gritting his teeth, and I reach into my pocket to luckily find a handkerchief there. It's a cheap one, not real fabric but paper, but Sherlock presses it against his hand anyway.

Only then I realise we are not alone. At the main street, where the little street we fought in connects to it, is a girl. She's younger than me, maybe fifteen, and looks at us, especially at Sherlock's bleeding right hand, with wide, horrified eyes.

For a moment, I am frozen. What should I do? She probably saw what happened, she'll go to the police, many people would know who we are – and we are so close to getting our information.

Our eyes lock for a moment and she keeps standing still, breathing fearfully, so I start walking towards her slowly. When I'm only about three metres away from her, her eyes flick down to the knife I still have in my hand and I realise how I must look – does she think I'm going to kill her as well?

"What's your name?" I ask in German, putting away my knife slowly, and wait for her to answer while I come even closer.

"Lena." She replies, her voice barely a whisper, and she is beginning to tremble.

"What are you doing here?" I question further, stalling, as well as trying to find a way to not get her involved.

"Friend. Was at my friend's." Nodding, I come to a stand, nearly invading her personal space.

She is smaller than me, I have to look down to look into her face, but not much, and I feel a pang of sympathy for her. Even at fifteen, the fight Sherlock and I just had with our attackers is nothing she should have seen.

"Dear Lena – I'm really sorry about this." She doesn't have time to react, I only watch her eyes widening in fear, until my fist connects with her temple.

She crumbles quicker than the Rat, and I catch her before she hits the ground.

* * *

"Margery, hurry up!" I growl into the intercom, and she sighs, sounding annoyed.

The door buzzes and I push against it, opening it wide so Sherlock can carry the girl inside. It's the quickest we've went upstairs the whole time we've been here, if anyone from the other flats stepped outside right now, we'd be in serious trouble.

Margery doesn't show any sign of surprise besides rising her eyebrows slightly and stepping aside to let us in, getting a glass with water from the kitchen while Sherlock puts Lena on the sofa.

"Margery, do you have the information?" I ask her as soon as she comes from the kitchen, and she frowns.

"Kiara, what is going on? First you bring this random girl here and now you pressure me?" I know I'm still quite affected by the adrenaline, so I take a few deep breaths to calm myself.

"Sherlock and I were attacked, she was there and saw us. We need to leave now, take care of the criminals who attacked us and then get back to England as soon as possible. And I think it'd be best if the girl didn't see us at all." Margery listens carefully, thinks for a minute and then nods.

"On my computer, the password is 26387019, there is a file called housework. Print it, put it on a USB-stick and then delete it, those are all the information you wanted. I'll take care of the girl and the criminals." Margery commands without drawing a breath, and I only have to ask her repeat the password once more.

Five minutes later, we've done everything. Sherlock and I are ready to leave, Margery has called people of her network to take care of Sherlock and my attackers, and Lena is just starting to stir.

The farewell with Margery is hurried and very unsatisfying – we only have time for a quick hug and then Sherlock and I are gone.

It's very late when Sherlock and I are sitting in the train towards Bremen, leaving the rented car with Irene, having quickly called Irene to say goodbye and Mycroft to ask him to organize a flight.

When we're sitting on the plane, the whole situation catches up with me and only then it's that I realise that we are currently going back to England – to find Moran with Margery's information.

I fall asleep on the airport in Frankfurt, stumble into the plane with Sherlock's help, and then everything is black.

 


	62. Don't Ever Ask Again

" _What happened?"_

" _Oh good, you're up. How do you feel?"_

" _My head really hurts – excuse me, but who are you?"_

" _My name is Suzanne, but you can also call me Margery."_

" _Margery?"_

" _Second name, like it much better. And you?"_

" _What?"_

" _Your name?"_

" _Lena – sorry, what's going on?"_

" _You fell and hit your head pretty bad, and when I saw it and came down, you didn't want an ambulance, so I took you up with me."_

" _I – fell?"_

" _Yeah, why?"_

" _It's just – was a girl with red hair nearby?"_

" _Don't think so, it's after ten, the streets are mostly empty and I didn't see anyone."_

" _It's after ten? PM?"_

" _Yeah?"_

" _Dammit, I need to call my parents, the bus has left by now."_

" _Probably, yes, sorry – do you have a phone or do you want to use mine?"_

" _I have one, thanks. But are you sure there was no red haired girl anywhere close?"_

" _Quite – well, she could have walked away quickly, but the street is quite simple, she would have had to run..."_

" _Okay, my father will pick me up in twenty minutes. Could I-?"_

" _Yeah sure, I'll wait with you."_

* * *

Sherlock's POV:

Sherlock curses when the straight blade of the razor nicks his skin slightly. He can't hold it with his right hand because of the carefully cleaned, inspected and stitched together wound, which still hurts every time he moves, even three days after the fight, being home for more or less two, just as much as in the beginning, and he never had to shave with his left hand before. The electric razor is right there, next to the sink, mocking him, but there is a reason why he chose the straight razor. And he can't give in now.

Trying again, he wills his left hand to obey perfectly, he sets the blade on the skin, and growls when he cuts himself once more.

Only his sense of logic stops him from throwing the razor against the wall – it might bounce back and hit him, and he'd like to avoid further injuries.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Kiara knocks on the door to his bathroom, and Sherlock nearly groans. The blood makes the foam go pink, and it hurts, so he decides to give up.

"Come in," he calls, and bows down to splash water onto his face. Only when she enters he remembers he is only wearing his pyjama-bottoms, but she doesn't look bothered.

"What exactly are you doing?" The amusement is creeping up in her voice, and Sherlock grits his teeth and straightens up to look at her, half of his face still covered with foam.

"I am trying to shave."

"You cut yourself."

"Not intentionally, but if you remember, I am right-handed and sadly can't use that hand."

"And now? Electric?"

"What else am I supposed to do? Don't shave at all?"

"I can do it for you," she says, sounding almost casual, but her lips have tightened minimally. Is it because she finds it embarrassing or because she feels uneasy about it? Why would she offer it then?

He almost considers saying that he'll just use the electric shaver, but he hates that thing. And besides, he wants to know why Kiara offered it.

"If you wouldn't mind," he replies, hoping for a reaction, but this time her face doesn't show anything. Nodding once, she motions to the sink for him to wash the foam off, obviously wanting to use new one, and drapes a towel over her right arm, taking up the razor and cleaning it carefully.

The lid of the toilet is cold as he sits on it to be smaller than her, as is the wall he leans against slightly, but there's nothing he can change about that so he blocks it out.

Her face betrays nothing as she carefully prepares the soap, finally using the brush to spread the soap over his skin.

Tipping his head back, he watches her as she puts it away, to take up the blade and set it to the high edge of the foam, his breath catching slightly as she draws it down.

It is still a strange feeling to not do it by himself, the last time he hadn't done it himself is years ago. Sherlock is unsure whether she is aware what power she has right now, and for a tiny, horrible moment he hopes he hasn't made a huge mistake in trusting her – and her ability to recognize when a panic attack might start. Right now she could kill him so quickly he wouldn't even have the chance to cry out.

But no, she just repeats the motion, her movements slow, but deliberate and confident, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

For a moment he just focuses on the feeling of the blade catching slightly on the hairs, until Kiara wipes the blade on the towel again.

"You've done this before." It's a statement, not a question, but she nods none the less. Waiting as she draws the blade down, he tries again.

"When?"

"Before we met," her answer is clipped, short, and Sherlock knows he is entering dangerous territory, but he wants to know what she is thinking right now.

"What happened?" He says it a bit too early, the blade is still on the skin of his throat, directly over his carotid, as she tenses and unconsciously presses the blade lightly into his skin.

"Don't." She looks calm, just her eyes are blazing and once again Sherlock is reminded of his vulnerability.

"Just don't." She takes the blade away from his skin and carefully wipes it on the towel, then sets the blade anew on his skin. Sherlock doesn't ask again.

When Kiara finally takes away the blade, cleans it carefully once again ad puts it away, his neck is aching and he has a crick in his back, but when he touches his cheek he can feel she did a good job.

She's still silent when she gives him a wet towel to wash the residues off his face, and when she leaves the room.

Sherlock knows there is something she doesn't say, something she doesn't want to remember. She is behaving like she always does when asked about Maynard, so was it him? What had he done to make her feel like that? Especially before they met, when Moriarty was still alive. Why didn't he prevent it?

As it happens so often in the last few weeks, his thoughts stray towards the relationship Kiara had with her father. The man had been an insane psychopath, organised crimes for a living and enjoyed killing people, and yet, he had a daughter who obviously loved him – and was loved by him, if Kiara's anecdotes are to be believed. So how did he do it? How had he managed to raise Kiara to the way she is now? Especially as he could only have been barely twenty when she was born.

Sherlock is pulled from his thoughts when Kiara comes back, in her hands a black shirt and trousers, her face still an emotionless mask, but her eyes a bit more relaxed than before.

He reaches for the clothes and is surprised when she keeps hold of it so they are both gripping the fabric. Looking up to her face, he sees resolution, something unidentifiable which he thinks might be worry or fear, and a peculiar lack of mercy, the promise of consequences should he not do what she said, something he had never seen on her face before, not even when they had fought against threads. It is an expression he only ever attributed to Jim Moriarty before, and right now, she resembles him more than ever.

"Sherlock." Her voice is cold and hard, making him think back to that Wednesday when she shot him, "Don't ever ask that again."

Letting go of the fabric, she turns around and leaves, the door closing behind her with a loud click.


	63. Lestrade, Holmes and Watson

_When I wake up, I keep my eyes closed. I strain my ears in the hope to find out where Watson and Holmes are. It isn't hard, neither them nor the third man, who are in the living room, are quiet. They are arguing, and I smile widely. The third man is probably Lestrade, and he is - what did Watson say? - a good escape route._

_Without making a sound, I get up and start looking through the drawers. Maybe Holmes, as I am pretty sure this is his room, has got something I can use. After all, he must have many enemies. And I am lucky – in the top drawer of his night stand is a small handgun with bullets. I put them in the gun and pick it up. It feels good in my hand, it isn't as big as the ones Father has and my hands are quite small. I might even keep this one._

_I can still hear the arguing, especially the voice of Lestrade, so I grip the gun with both hands. When I kick the door open, everyone looks at me in surprise and I suppress a narrow my eyes even further._

" _Hands up, now, and stand in a line!" I say loudly and point the gun at Watson. They comply slowly, Holmes' face completely closed off, Watson's and Lestrade's rather shocked._

" _Thank you for your flattering view of my innocence, but it takes a lot more to knock me out for more than half an hour." Lestrade is looking from Sherlock to Watson and back, but they are both focused on me, not noticing his confusion._

" _Hello, DI Lestrade, my name is Kiara Moriarty, daughter of Jim Moriarty. Not that it'll do you much good, having that knowledge." Silently thanking Father for his determination to make me learn shooting and his never ending lessons, which are mostly by Andy and David, but he also teaches me now and then when he has time, I don't have to aim for very long, I just fire two shots in very quick succession – and Holmes and Lestrade fall to the floor, shouting in pain, each clutching their bleeding thigh. It's good to know they're not in imminent danger, I know I haven't hit their main arteries, but I am sure it hurts like hell._

_Watson twitches, I'm not sure whether to help them or to attack me, but I aim my gun at Holmes head._

" _No, no, Dr Watson, I think neither of us want that, right?" He growls, anger obvious, and for a second I am glad I am not in his reach._

_Switching the aim of the gun to Lestrade's head, I look straight into his eyes. Father was talking about it not long ago, he started including and teaching me about the web a few months ago, and I can see Lestrade is still caught up in the latest case Father had constructed – or rather which Moran had constructed. To Father's amusement and my surprise, Lestrade was doing rather well, following the right clues and interrogating the right persons._

" _By the way, DI Lestrade, you were doing well." Narrowing his eyes, he slightly turns his head to the right, looking at me in bewilderment, still clutching his bleeding leg._

" _Your case in the moment. It was the husband's father." Just as I speak the words, I can hear Watson's sharply indrawn breath and I'm sure now he realised what is going on._

_People always say pulling the trigger is hard, the guilt after the first kill a horrible burden. I have not felt that way, even at the age of eight, but maybe Father had been a huge influence – while teaching me that killing without reason, be it money, ambition or revenge, was not a thing I was allowed to do, he also taught me to make myself the most important thing. He didn't completely succeed, he is more important to me than myself, but it showed me that it was me or them._

_So just like seven years ago, pulling the trigger is not hard. The bullet shoots right through the forehead of the DI, slightly above his nose, and he slackens, falling to the ground. Blood is behind and around him, and there is a steadily growing puddle, but even better are the two shocked gasps I hear from Watson and Holmes, and then the shouts of Lestrade's name._

_In less than a second, the aim of the gun is already on Holmes' forehead again, stopping Watson in his movement towards me. Holmes hasn't moved besides a small twitch, but I know he is surprised and in bad pain, even though his face betrays nothing. Watson on the other hand, is smiling in a way that makes me shiver._

" _It doesn't matter whether I stand still or attack you, does it?" He says, and his voice is deadly calm._

" _Our emergency contact will be here in ten minutes, minimum, and -" He is interrupted by the voice of a woman, probably at least twenty years older than Holmes and Watson, who is shouting up the stairs to us._

" _Sherlock? Are you all right? If you're just bored and shooting the wall again, you'll be paying, dear!" she threatens, and I can't help but smirk. An old lady, telling Holmes what to do._

" _Everything is fine, Mrs Hudson. And you're late for Mrs Turner." Holmes calls down, his voice steady and confident, and I recognize it as getting the old lady out of the way._

_All of us are silent for a moment, listening to her quickly getting ready and then going out of the door, then I turn back to Watson._

" _You just killed an officer of Scotland Yard. That is something not even your father can fix just like that!" He growls, looking to the limp body and the blood of the dead DI for less than a second._

" _John, calm down." Holmes states calmly, and to my surprise, Watson looks at him for a moment, harshly breathing in and out twice, but finally nods._

" _What do you want, Moriarty?" He asks, and I can see in his eyes that he is aware he called me differently than I told him - a fire I associate with him already, after simply hearing about him from Father and knowing him personally for less than an hour. "Why did you kill Detective Inspector Lestrade?"_

_For a moment, I find that blinking is a nice thing to do, especially as it gives me time to think about how exactly my response will be and how I'll continue._

_Watson was wrong, it is simple for Father to get me off the grid and not persecuted for the murder of Lestrade – especially as I'm not in the system in any way. But what of his plans with Holmes and Watson?_

_I feel the cruel streak I only see in Father when he is doing his job in myself, and suddenly I know what I'm going to do. It's simple – if Holmes and Watson manage to restrain me, then I'm sure, with Holmes' intellect, not even Father would find my body._

" _I don't want anything from you directly, Mr Holmes. I just want to be able to leave – and hostages aren't that bad either, with your contact coming." He frowns for a moment, but Watson already started shouting._

" _This isn't a hostage situation, Moriarty! This is an execution!" For the first time, I can hear real fear in his voice, and for a moment I'm curious whether he fears for himself or Holmes._

" _John." Holmes says again, his voice still as calm and steady as before, if not a bit more quietly, and a bit weaker – even his hold on his leg doesn't stop the blood from flowing._

" _Your right, Dr Watson. This is an execution. But at least you don't have to watch your best friend dying." His eyes widen as soon as I finish the sentence, but before he can really react I lift the gun and fire._

_It's almost in slow-motion, and as if someone had turned the sound off. Holmes just looks at Watson, and for the first time since I left his room, his mask really breaks. Surprise, worry, shock, fear, pain and anger flit across his face, but his eyes never leave Watson's face._

_Watson himself slowly falls backwards, hitting the floor with a loud thump, and lies still, not noticing the rapidly spreading puddle of blood._

" _John," Holmes whispers, and his voice breaks. And I know this is when he stops caring. He doesn't care that he'll most likely bleed to death if he lets go of the bullet-wound in his thigh. He doesn't care that I'm still in the room and can see him. He doesn't care I could shoot him any second now._

_He only cares that his best friend is dead, and that the spreading blood was inside a living human only seconds ago._

_I lower the gun and watch him trying to get to Watson, watch him wince whenever he moves because of his leg, and see him break when he searches for a pulse and inevitably doesn't find one._

_He slumps down, his back not straight any more, but curling in on himself, pulling Watson's head on his lap, not minding that his clothes are soaked with blood within seconds._

" _John. John, wake up. John." His words are quiet, spoken only to his friend as he carefully touches the doctor's cheek, but I hear them anyway, and wait for him to look up into my face, with rage in his eyes._

_It takes a few minutes, but finally he does. But instead of rage, I see defeat in his eyes. His mask is gone, and I can directly see that he's broken, that nothing I could do now could be worse than this, than holding Watson's head in his lap, carefully stroking the weathered cheek and the sandy, but greying hair, with the huge wound on the doctor's forehead._

" _Why?" He whispers, and I'm sure he doesn't even realise there are tears in his eyes, one of them rolling down his cheek._

" _Because I could." I answer, and step closer, pointing the gun at his forehead again, but he doesn't react. Almost as if he has not even seen it._

" _And because Father promised to burn the heart out of you. Can you feel it, Mr Holmes? Moriarty always wins." I wait for a few seconds, wait for a reaction, but he barely even blinks. Just as I'm getting ready to shoot though, he opens his mouth._

" _I know you don't care about what I want. I know you don't feel remorse for this, but grant me one thing." He stops to look at me, and I tilt my head. For some reason I want to know what he has to say._

" _Do whatever you want want with the flat, my body, the gun you stole from me. But don't harm any more of my friends. Please, you've already won, so just leave them alone. And most importantly, leave John alone. Please." His voice sounds as if he's already given up, as if he's sure I'll say no, but somehow, his request impresses me._

_Switching the gun to my left hand, I lean forward and offer him my hand to shake._

" _I can't promise anything. But I'll ask Father to remember your request." After looking at me for a moment, he finally nods, knowing it's the best he'll get, and slowly takes my hand._

_We shake once, and I can almost feel his grip weakening with the amount of blood he has already lost, which is now mixing with Watson's._

_When I step back again, he touches Watson's cheek once, and whispers, "Wait for me, John.", before he looks up to me and nods._

_I pull the trigger._


	64. Detachment

_He touches Watson's cheek once, and whispers, "Wait for me, John.", before he looks up to me and nods._

_I pull the trigger._

* * *

I wake with a scream. The image of Sherlock being sprawled on the floor, fingers still nearly touching Watson's face, their blood from the matching bullet-wounds on their foreheads mixing, is ingrained in my brain, and I fear that when I close my eyes again, I'll see it again.

Mycroft wakes as well and looks at me, still sleepy, but quickly regaining more and more awareness of the situation.

"Kiara? What's wrong?" His voice is croaky, if only barely, because of just waking up, and sounds worried, and even though he didn't appear in my dream, I feel the panic creeping up.

Twisting into a better position, I reach up and touch his neck, searching for a pulse. It is there, beating strongly but getting quicker, and somewhere at the back of my mind I wonder why. The rest of me is just glad his heart is beating.

"Kiara? Kiara, can you hear me?" His voice is definitely rougher now, filled with worry and maybe apprehension, but there is no way I can answer now. What if there's a hole in his forehead, what if blood is seeping into the pillow and his heart is simply beating his last beats?

Keeping my hand on his neck, pressing down slightly to be able to feel the pulse, I use the other one to touch his forehead, his cheeks, his temples, his nose, the side and back of his head which I can reach. And I am constantly waiting for feeling wet, warm blood on my fingers, but there's nothing, just the normal Mycroft.

"Kiara, stop. Stop!" He orders, and I halt, only because I trust him to know what to do, but maybe he's not feeling it? Maybe there is a wound, what if something happens now?

Two strong, but careful hands suddenly grab my arms from behind and pull me back, off the bed and into the arms of the waiting person.

There is no direct instinct for me to fight back – maybe because Mycroft is not reacting in a way that would be suitable if there were a dangerous person behind me; maybe because I can smell, and when he starts speaking, also hear Sherlock's voice, and feel the bandage on his hand; and most probably because I realise how it must look to them. Me pressing down, even if just lightly, down on Mycroft's neck, not reacting to his questions. The major part of my brain is still in panic and shock though.

Without really fighting, I turn my head to look at Sherlock, at least slightly, and try and twist to see his face. Is a bleeding bullet-wound on his forehead? I did see it happen, I did it myself, so could it be real?

It's now that I also understand what Sherlock is saying – mostly my name, but he's also reassuring me where I am, and telling me he's not there to hurt me. It seems so genuine, so caring, that I feel the shame and guilt doubling. How could I shoot him, if only in a dream? How could I think about killing Sherlock, Watson and Lestrade with such enjoyment, with such cruelty?

"Sherlock, I'm not having a flash-back, I'm okay," I say through gritted teeth, fighting the dream with all my might.

"What happened?" He fires back, not letting go of me, and I can feel myself loosing.

"I just had to check you're alive. Sherlock, do you have a pulse? Is your head okay?" Babbling, I slacken in his arms, not finding the strength to hold myself up, and finally lets go of me, turning me around and looking at me in a confused state.

It's no use just seeing his intact forehead, I need to check, so I grab his arms and pull him towards the bed, and make him sit down, hands already on his face.

"I shot you. I shot you, Sherlock!" The sentence nearly ends is a sob, which I strictly suppress. I don't start crying just because of a bad dream. Or maybe I am.

Sherlock seems to understand though, and just sits there, with closed eyes, and waits for me to finish – and like with Mycroft, I check his forehead more than once, and also his temples and cheeks, and then with both hands his complete head.

His pulse is also beating strongly under my index and middle finger when I check for it, and I can feel myself calming down. I don't even have to check his leg. It's weird, but for me it's logical that if I didn't shoot him in the head, then his leg is fine as well.

When I'm finally done, Sherlock just opens his eyes and looks to me with a questioning glint in his eyes. But it's not that easy. I'm not a person to tell any and everybody about my problems, and even though Sherlock and Mycroft are the two persons I trust most, it's still something my first instinct tells me to bury and hide deep inside me.

When I see Sherlock though, waiting for an explanation after trusting me not to hurt him despite being completely shaken, I know I have to tell him.

"I dreamt I shot you. Deliberately, cruelly, having fun while doing so. I dreamt I shot you, Lestrade – and Dr Watson."

* * *

It's a few hours later that I realise why my brain might have shown me that distorted memory. I'm sitting on the roof-top again, just as I did on New Year's Eve, dangling my legs over the seven metres free air. And maybe it's that connection to New Year's Eve, when Mycroft had been inclined to forgive me, even though I hadn't known then, that makes me realise what my biggest weakness in our fight against Moran is – Sherlock and Mycroft.

They are also big strengths of mine, but if we are used against each other, which I'm sure Moran will attempt to do, we're helpless.

And in a way, I want to confront Moran directly. Not just a shot by a sniper in the head or heart, I want to talk to him, want to know what could possibly make him turn like that. And then I want to watch the light in his eyes diminishing and dying.

As set in the plan we made soon after we arrived back in England from Germany, we decide to go and attack Moran, whose location we now know, after we compared our and Margery's information, on Sunday, the 28th of April, exactly two weeks after the flight back.

It's three days till then, not much, but hopefully enough.

* * *

Mycroft looks confused when I tell him I'll be sleeping on my own again, but when I block his questions three times in a row, he stops asking. I still feel guilty when I see the hurt glimmer in his eyes.

Sherlock is a bit trickier. He notices as well, of course, but he keeps asking. After half a day I decide to just leave the room whenever he starts.

It's hard to research in my own room, to not talk to them more than necessary, to break off any further contact, but it's the only way I can detach myself from them. I know that if any of us get hurt while attacking Moran, I'll forever blame myself, but at least my emotions won't have been in the way.

The second day is the hardest. The first was almost normal, it sometimes happened that I didn't talk to them very much, but never for more than a day. I also have nightmares all the three nights.

The third day is easier. I can feel myself slipping in old behaviours, by thinking about Father, looking at pictures and remembering the way I was and the way I reacted in the dream, and if it weren't exactly what I wanted, I'd be scared how close I am to being psychopathic.


	65. Sebastian Moran

One day later we start putting our plan into action. It's horribly cliché, but we talk through everything again and get ready in the afternoon, to leave when it's getting dark.

I haven't explained to them exactly what I'm doing. They only know I closed myself off, that I am shutting them out, keeping them away. But sometimes I have the feeling they understand – after all, it's basically what they've been doing most of the time.

By the time we arrive at the old windmill Moran is staying at this night, it's completely dark outside. The usually lush green grass, ferns and trees are dark, looming shadows caused by the silvery light of the moon.

We are a few hours outside London, not too far, but somewhere I have never been before. As soon as I see the windmill, I understand why Moran chose to stay here. At light it must be magnificent, a huge, wooden windmill, her vanes still intact and one of them nearly reaching the ground, the white windowsills, which are almost glowing in the moonlight, must be nearly impossible to look at with the bright sun.

I've been in a windmill before with Father, when I was twelve. It hadn't been this beautiful, this big, and certainly not abandoned.

* * *

Sherlock's POV:

The door is closed when they reach it, but not locked. All in all, it's suspiciously quiet. Had Kiara's informant lied after all? But that was very improbable, Margery Grey had seemed genuinely happy to see Kiara.

As discussed, Sherlock takes out his gun, and he doesn't have to look at his brother or Kiara to know that they're doing the same. There are two corridors leading away from the door, and after a quick glance at the others, he takes the left one, hearing Mycroft and Kiara walking the other way.

It's dark and eerily quiet in the huge building. The occasional creaking and groaning of the wood makes him jump the first few times, but as he realises quickly, it's only because of the wind – and they have a certain sound, a certain quality of age.

There aren't many doors in the corridors. It's a bit worrying, not knowing who might be in there, but it also makes it a lot simpler. When the detective comes past a slightly opened double-door, he realises why there aren't many entrances to the room surrounded by the curved corridor he'd been walking on – it's a huge, open room, the marks on the floor and the high ceiling tell him it was used as a room for important gatherings – parties, weddings, discussions.

The room is empty, completely empty apart from dust, so it's easy for him to check the room for people.

Eventually Sherlock reaches a spiral staircase. The steps are quite dirty, only a few cleaner spot betray the people who must have walked up here a day ago, but there's nothing newer. So where are Kiara and Mycroft? They couldn't have gone up already, and he can't hear them, so they can't be too close. Another staircase, maybe?

And also, did Moran walk up these stairs a day ago and not come down for about twenty-four hours? Why?

Upstairs there is another staircase and two further corridors, leaving him the clear choice. Further up is unintelligent, as he could be trapped, so which one to take?

Choosing the one leading to the left, he can't help but hope Kiara and Mycroft will realise and take the one to the right, it's no use searching the same rooms twice.

The wind makes the wood creak again, and Sherlock can't help but frown. Has the wind gotten stronger, which, in an abandoned, old windmill, could be dangerous? Or was there another reason?

Then, his head explodes. Or at least, it feels like it – a bright light and cruel pain flare up, and he can see the floor rising up to meet his head.

Moran's shoes are black, practical.

* * *

Kiara's POV:

The narrow, straight staircase leads up to a small room with two further doors, and I look around to Mycroft. My lip twitches almost in a smirk, it's strange to see him in situations like this, undercover. I know, however, that the slight scorn I'm feeling isn't real – it's something I'm telling myself to distance myself. It fits to the situation though, and feels real.

In sign-language I signal him to take the left door and go through the right myself. Behind it there's another room with doors, and another one, and another one. After five minutes I'm glad for the strict memory training Father gave me.

The door of the next room I'm planning to enter is slightly ajar, making it possible to look into it without being seen. It is lighter than most of the others, but it isn't artificial or electrical light. It's just the moon shining through the mostly clean windows, flooding everything with silvery blue light. The shadows are much longer, but the side of Moran's face which is not completely black is nearly white, harshly accentuated, making him look almost skull-like.

Moran is standing in the middle of the room, facing in my direction, but looking into one of the corners, so his gaze isn't focused on the door.

The click of the safety trigger is loud in the quiet air and I wince, but I'm so deep in my old mindset that I don't stop. Pushing the door open, I lift my gun and enter swiftly, only to find myself in an impasse. Moran's gun is pointed directly at my head, me mirroring his position exactly, and it's only now that I notice the chair on my left, about three metres away from me. Another two metres and then there's Moran.

The dark curls are clearly distinguishable, even in the bad light, even with Sherlock not holding his head up. He's not facing me, being turned the other direction, so I can see his bound wrists, and I understand that it's him Moran was looking at. What I don't understand though, is how Moran got him here.

It's the tiny hint of worry, the urge to drop the gun and rush towards him to check whether he's all right, which makes me grateful for the dream of shooting him, Lestrade and Watson. Without it, I wouldn't be able to push the emotion away, to completely disregard him as a friend, leaving slight sympathy, like you would have for a stranger, behind.

Still, it's not only wanting to keep my detachment secret that makes me do my next move.

"Sebastian." I state, almost as a greeting, but I keep my face emotionless.

"Kiara." he replies, but he's smirking, and for some reason, it's really getting on my nerves.

"We both know we'd both be dead in less than a second, so let's not do it this way. Moriarty and Moran, wasn't that the way it was planned?" It's not hard to keep my voice steady, to make it sound nonchalant. Because right now, that's the truth. I'd be completely horrified if this happened a week ago, but right now, I really don't care.

"You're not him," Moran answers, now with an arrogant, smug look gracing his features.

"But you're rather glad about that, aren't you? Imagine he stood here now – may I?" Both our gun are lowered by now and set on a table near by, so I nod towards Sherlock.

"Don't hold back," It would be almost creepy how civilised he sounds, how normal it is for both of us to be talking about a human being, but that's what we both are, here and now. Criminals.

Suppressing a smile, I walk towards Sherlock, but don't stop talking.

"Where is everybody?" Reaching Sherlock, I start searching for a pulse. "Don't tell me you're here alone." Moran chuckles.

"I'm not. I just wanted to talk to you alone, and told them to stay on the third floor."

Turning my head to look at him, surprised, I see that he put his hands in his pockets – still keeping our agreement of no weapons while talking, good.

"You told them to stay upstairs? Two against one, a bit dangerous, don't you think?"

"Three against one, dear, I know the Iceman is here as well – actually, standing just in front of the door."

Sighing, I turn my head to the door I came through, which nearly slammed shut because of the strength I used to push it open, bouncing back from the wall. It's a dangerous moment for me – the balance is shifting, I'm not sure whether I can keep my detachment, so I remember the incident with Smith and Stone.

It seems so long ago now, so carefree. Almost exactly a year ago now, a year and three days, and so much has changed, but I try to remember how it was then – Mycroft, the annoying big brother of Sherlock's, who couldn't even do a rescue properly.

"Mycroft, come in." I call out, loud enough for him to hear, and slowly the door opens.

Mycroft has his gun drawn, pointing it at Moran, but I can see a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. After all, neither Moran nor I are holding guns, Mycroft must have heard us talking, and I'm still touching Sherlock's neck, even though I've found the pulse minutes ago – slow, but strong and steady.

"Kiara, what's going on?" Mycroft's voice is sharp, wary, and for the moment, really annoying.

"Not now, Mycroft." I reply, knowingly using his full name. All that work on detaching myself and then a stupid mistake like that? Not going to happen.

It is almost heart-warming how much he trusts me, how easily he accepts such a useless answer in a critical moment.

"Have you ever thought about how delicate humans can be? How delicate even important persons are?" I ask Moran, carefully gripping Sherlock's chin and neck and slowly twist, as if I'd want to break his neck. "How easy it'd be to just twist and  _snap_?"

"It is one of the first realisations you have when you do what I do." Moran states, nodding slightly.

Mycroft on the other hand looks, behind his carefully constructed mask, shocked and almost horrified. It's a great risk to provoke both conscious men in the room like that, I know, but I want to know something else from Moran – and to save Sherlock's, Mycroft's and my life.

"Why did you let me live?" My voice is steady, calm, but it is something that burdened me for quite some time. Why would he let me live, a continuous threat to rule over the web?

"There were those who obey because of fear and those who are loyal – then, they were loyal to Jim. Your two pals, Andy and David, wasn't it, would have known you'd been murdered, and probably by whom, so by keeping you there, but also making you run away, I kept those loyal people – You can't imagine how much we all grieved when you ran away and we thought you were dead.

What will Andy say though, when I tell him about Maynard? How it was your fault he was tortured?"

I can feel my mask slipping, can almost see the cracks in my façade. Anything else but Maynard I could have managed, but not him, not now, not here.

"It was Maynard who tortured him, not me. It wasn't my fault!" Moran smiles widely, his eyes gleaming. He has found a sore spot and he knows it.

"Oh, but it was you who disobeyed, knowing what would happen." I close my eyes and let go of Sherlock's head, instead steadying me on his shoulders.

"It's nothing to do with you. Nothing to do with this conversation." My voice is shaking with suppressed anger, but Moran just smiles wider, as Mycroft looks at us both in confusion and suspicion.

"It does. What do you think why I chose him as my second in command?"

Suddenly two things happen at once. A loud bang indicates the shot from Mycroft's gun, and Moran crumples to the floor, a wound on his forehead, like in my dream. And Sherlock suddenly moves, twitching away from my hands, obviously awake and aware what's going on.

It takes me a few moments to realise Moran is dead, then I sink to my knees to open the leather-ties holding Sherlock in the chair.

When the room begins to spin, I notice something is wrong. My head hits the floor a second later, nearly unconscious, and I hear Mycroft calling my name.

The last thing I can think about is how I didn't succeed, how Sherlock's bonds are still intact. Then everything goes black.


	66. James Maynard

A sharp pain in my leg is what finally wakes me up completely. I can remember opening my eyes a few times before; pressure and pain in my right leg; the inside of Mycroft's car, Sherlock looking down at me, worriedly, my head in his lap; my bedroom at home. It's always just moments, less than a second, before the darkness pulls me down again.

I look up to the ceiling of my room for a few moments, expecting to fall asleep again, but apart from having to blink more often than usual, I'm awake.

Then I remember why I woke up and reach down, only to find roughly woven fabric, a white bandage covering most of my right thigh. It hurts, but I'm pretty sure it's not too serious – I wouldn't be lying here otherwise. Besides, I don't feel very stiff, I couldn't be lying in that bed for more than ten hours.

The door opens just as I try to sit up and Sherlock enters. He stops when he sees me nearly sitting, quickly scanning my body with his laser-eyed stare, in which I realise I'm not wearing my jeans any more, and then steps closer.

"How are you feeling?" He asks, but I'm almost sure he knows. The wound is little more than a graze, and he can read me better than I can myself sometimes, so it shouldn't be a problem for him to know, so I ask a question myself.

"What happened? After My came in?" I wipe my face once, feeling a slight sheen of sweat on my lip.

"Mycroft shot Moran in the head, he's dead. But apparently he managed to fire one shot as well, which grazed your leg. Mycroft says you didn't realise, but tried to open the ties on my wrists. Shock and blood loss led to unconsciousness, and after Mycroft freed me, we got you help as soon as we could. The doctor said it isn't a bad wound, so we took you here, despite his protests." Sherlock keeps his voice calm and steady, but in his eyes is a glimmer of excitement, something I'm not sure he realises.

I only nod and slowly get up. It hurts but is manageable, so I put on my pyjama-bottoms and slowly follow Sherlock out the door, limping.

I can't help but feel glad that he didn't mention me nearly twisting his neck.

* * *

It's only the next day, when I'm lying in Mycroft's bed with him in the morning, everything still dark, that I remember everything that happened up to the point of me loosing consciousness.

Mycroft's breaths are steady and deep, but somehow I know he's awake, despite the early hour.

"Father started planning the structures of his web long before I was born. But the details were finished when I was about seven." My voice, intentionally kept quiet by me, is still loud in the silence of the room, but I can hear the change in Mycroft's breathing.

"I was eight, nearly nine, when he had recruited most of the threads. Of course, one or two should change, but the first three big ones were there. Smith and Stone, Daunt, Timothy – and Moran.

Things like that, promising organisations, become known in the criminal world quickly. Father had already done brilliant things, so people came, tried to join him.

"Maynard was one of them. He was called differently then, which is why I didn't recognize him before. He was great – strong, charismatic, fast, had many followers, a lot of experience. But he was intelligent, very intelligent, something Father didn't appreciate in that combination. What if Maynard tried to take over? He wasn't as brilliant as Father, but came closer than the others.

So Father turned him down. Told him he didn't fit in with the others he'd chosen. And Maynard left, didn't complain once, just disappeared." Taking a break to calm myself, I wipe my face, ridding it of tears which were still to come. Mycroft was simply waiting, and for a second I felt glad I had chosen to tell him and not Sherlock. Sherlock would've asked, prodded, pressured. Mycroft listens.

"We didn't hear from him for nearly a year. Father continued building his web, trained his associates, trained me.

Margery, Andy and I were walking home one day, I think from the cinema. Father wouldn't let me out often, but he understood my love for movies and games, so now and then I was allowed to go, if Margery and David or Andy came with me. We were walking through the back-alleys, as usual, because it was quicker, not as many people saw us, or rather not so many of his enemies could spot me, and Andy has a scar on his face." Reaching up, I softly draw it on Mycroft's skin, ghosting my fingertips from his left temple, over his eyelid, his nose, and the right end of his mouth, ending on his neck.

"People always stared at him, remembered him, so we walked where less people were interested.

They took us completely by surprise. They knocked all three of us unconscious, but left Margery there, to tell Father what happened.

When I woke up, I was in a room I didn't know, Maynard next to me. He told me he wouldn't harm me, but if I disobeyed, he'd hurt Andy. I couldn't see Andy, and I didn't believe Maynard, so I kicked him." I'm breathing harshly by now, loud in the quiet air, but I can feel a calmness, a numbness sink down unto me - like something's left from the self-induced psychopathy from yesterday.

"I was nine, alone and scared, so I didn't really hurt him. But as soon as he took a step back, Andy started screaming. He must have been in a room next to the one I was in because I could hear him clearly, and he didn't stop screaming for ten seconds.

After that, I believed Maynard. He made me do things for him. He never touched me, never did anything physically bad to me, but whenever I made a mistake, no matter how small, he punished Andy.

About a week after he kidnapped us, he told me to help him shave. I held the blade in my hand, had it so close to his carotid artery, but I couldn't do it.

I had killed before, that wasn't the problem, my first kill was when I was eight. But I knew they'd never stop torturing Andy if I did, and Maynard was already too far in my head – he told me not to try and escape and kill him, so I didn't. I could only wait for Father to find us, which he did after three weeks.

It took me months to tell him, took me months to realise we were free. I didn't go outside for three years, and had therapists, the best of the best, for four years.

I have no idea how they tortured Andy, just as he doesn't know why he was tortured, I couldn't tell him it was my fault.

Maynard had, as I know now, traumatised me deeply, but when we met him again, I couldn't help it. I could hear Andy's screams again, could hear Sherlock screaming, you. He told me he'd keep you, he'd torture you. He told me he wanted to try out whether he could make you scream, after Anthea couldn't."

Mycroft is still silent when I stop, his breathing pattern is different though, shocked, and probably shaken by the mention of Anthea.

Suddenly I can't lie still any more, can't stay close to Mycroft any more, so I get out of the bed as quickly as I can and limp towards the door. I have no idea where to go, my room, the roof, Mycroft's study, anywhere, but I know I need to leave.

Just before I close the door, I turn around and look at Mycroft, who hasn't moved.

"You can tell Sherlock about this, if you want." I say, and my voice breaks, "But I never want to talk about it again."


	67. Many Happy Returns

John's POV:

The day at the surgery keeps John well occupied; the homeless network had realised after he had found and helped some of them, that John worked there and was willing to help them for no money. It took a long time, but then again, he did have nearly two years since  _Sherlock_  – he forces himself to think it, it's no use to be afraid of his best friend's name – fell. He hates to say that Sherlock jumped, though. The ex-army-doctor still doesn't believe that. Sherlock's ego had been so huge, fuelled by his brilliance and the constant praise that John had given him, that he wouldn't kill himself just because his reputation was destroyed. Furthermore, John had served in Afghanistan. It was a time which he would definitely remember forever, both the good parts and the bad ones, but he had to admit – it had given him, after all, a lot of confidence and knowledge that had been most useful. It wasn't as useful now, but it surprised him again and again with what kind of wounds the homeless network came to him. One part of experience had been witnessing one of the soldiers go through depression and suicide. Many others had thought about it, him sometimes, in the very dark days, as well, but the point is, he does know what people look like when they are going to commit suicide. Well, you can't always see that, you might argue now, but John  _knows_  that Sherlock didn't die because he wanted to. So he prefers the term  _fell_.

After treating Phoenix last, he leaves after a quick "Goodbye" to Mary and the other nurses, and begins the way home. The underground surprisingly isn't that full any more, but then again, as he realises when he looks at his watch, it's long after rush-hour.

The brass letters that spell 221B are still as shiny as ever and as he's limping toward the black door he has a strange feeling of deja-vu. Is the cab, which is driving behind him, going to stop? Is a tall man with dark curls and high cheekbones going to step out, call out his name and shake his hand?

But the cab drives by and John smiles about himself. That was a long time ago, and not happening again.

The address 221 Baker street is still owned by an old lady called Martha Hudson. The address 221 B Baker street is still home to Dr John Watson, formerly Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, but so much has changed. The flat is much tidier now. Most of the papers, books, science equipments and other clutter are in the room on the first floor, Sherlock's old room. John is still sleeping in his old room, he couldn't live in Sherlock's because well, it was  _Sherlock's_.

The kettle is new. Sherlock had been using the old one for an experiment during the 'Reichenbach Fall' as the Newspapers had called it, and John had just thrown it away. When he thinks about it, he thinks that it is a good name. It describes what Sherlock went through and how it had all started.

John sighs when he tastes the slightly bitter taste of the Earl Gray once again and relaxes. Home isn't what it used to be, but it still is home.

A few hours later, John is sitting in front of his computer, the cold and empty take-out box forgotten next to him. Every few minutes he looks up at the chair in front of him, where the violin-case resides. It has been there for two years, only moved every six months to be checked and repaired.

* * *

It's still light outside (it's nearly June!) when he hears steps on the stairs. He isn't expecting anyone, Lestrade called him just yesterday and Mrs Hudson sounds a lot different. The steps are slow, uncertain, but heavy. A man, a big man, who seems to know the steps. He avoids most of the creaking ones, just not the new ones, and John is alert instantly.

Who would come in here just like that? It's none of his friends (he doesn't have many), they would have just come up quickly and the homeless network would have rung the bell. So there's only one conclusion: Someone who isn't meant to be here, somebody who knows that.

The laptop doesn't make a sound when the soldier – when did he change into soldier mode? - puts it on the desk, and gets up, readying himself. He scolds himself for a second for not having his gun on him, but there's nothing he can do about it, so he pushes it to the back of his head.

Slowly the door swings open and a man enters. His hair is shorter than it used to be, his face is even thinner and he isn't wearing coat and scarf, but John recognizes him anyway and forgets to breathe.

"John." The deep baritone is calm and confident, and  _so, so familiar_ , that John breathes in and blinks once, twice to make sure he isn't seeing things. He is sure that the man isn't a hallucination, he never had any and he's through his grieving, but how is this possible?

"Sherlock?" John's voice is quiet, not quite believing what he's seeing, but hoping so desperately that it's real.

Then his mood changes. Sherlock Holmes, dead, stands in front of him. Well, obviously not dead, but this man faked his death in front of him! Made him watch! Told him lies, told him to keep his eyes on Sherlock!

The anger kicks in and John knows it is visible on his face.

"You... You!" The doctor nearly screams and steps forward. He isn't sure whether he is going to hug or punch Sherlock, and by the sad and slightly confused look on Sherlock's face the detective isn't either.

He isn't much closer to Sherlock when somebody else enters the room, limping slightly. Kiara Moriarty looks quite different to the last and first time he saw her. Even though she had been pretty before, she is beautiful now. Her red hair frames her pale face, and brings out her bright green eyes. The freckles are dusted on her little nose, and her full lips complete the picture of a model-like beauty.

She is behind Sherlock, who hasn't turned around at all, and John's instincts kick in. Within milliseconds he sees the gun in her back-pocket, the knife beneath her shirt and the needle strapped to her biceps.

He also sees that she is reaching towards Sherlock's shoulder, her other hand near the gun, and that's when John jumps into action.

Pushing Sherlock to the side, he grips her shoulder and spins her around, and grips her in a quick choke-hold, holding her right arm up to keep her from getting the gun, knife or needle. She doesn't really resist, only struggles a bit and tries to move her head to avoid choking. Her frantic breaths are getting shorter and harsher, and he silently starts counting seconds, when Sherlock grips his shoulder.

"John! John, stop!" The detective needs a few seconds to get through to his friend, until he loosens his hold just a bit, a tiny bit, so that just enough blood can flow to keep the girl alive for longer than fifteen seconds. It's still painful though.

"What, Sherlock?" his voice is sharp, clipped and in full soldier mode, instinctively he had snapped back instantly into protecting his friend.

"She's not dangerous!"

"She's Moriarty's daughter!"

"Yes, and she has not only helped me to destroy his web the past two years but also saved my life countless times!"

"She helped?"

"Yes, John, now please let her go, I can explain!"

Still not very sure, he lets her go and watches as she falls to her knees and starts coughing. He steps away, deliberately away from Sherlock, and waits for her to stop, which she does after a few seconds.

"What the hell is going on here?" John's voice is clipped, angry and confused, which shows his emotions quite well.

He watches how the girl slowly gets to her knees and then stands up, and how Sherlock looks at her, just briefly, but jealousy flares up in John. Sherlock used to look at  _him_  like that, searching for help, for words. Then Sherlock begins to speak.

"John, this is Kiara Moriarty, you've met her before."

At this point she steps forward and extends her hand.

"Dr Watson, I'm sorry that both our first meetings have been like this; I am happy to finally be able to talk to you properly. Please call me Kiara." Her tone and body language are friendly, polite and slightly guarded, but for John that's quite understandable. Her whole demeanour is a lot more grown-up than it was two years ago, and in her eyes he can see a wisdom beyond her years. She must be, what, seventeen now? Eighteen?

He shakes her hand and nods, not bothering to say anything.

"She helped me to find, attack and destroy her father's and now Moran's web over the last fifteen months. Despite – despite who her father was, she is not an enemy, John. Without her, I wouldn't be here. Kiara found me nine months after my fake-suicide and we have done it – with Mycroft's help. Moran is dead." Sherlock's voice is nearly monotone, but John believes he can hear a slight pleading in his voice.

With his head bowed, John takes it all in, and he can't help the flares of jealousy and anger he feels towards Kiara whenever Sherlock says "we" or expresses how much she did for him. Of course, he is grateful that Sherlock is alive, but he could have done the same. He could have helped him.

"Who else?" John's voice is very quiet.

"Who else what?" Sherlock asks confused.

"Who else knew? Who else beside Mycroft, whom you hate, did you tell?" John's voice gets louder and louder with every word and Sherlock's eyes widen.

"Molly." His voice is nearly inaudible, and John explodes.

He punches Sherlock squarely in the jaw, knocking him back and sending him sprawling to the floor.

"You told Molly? You always use and hurt her, and don't care for her very much, and you told HER? I thought I meant something, Sherlock!" John screams those words, screams them out, and watches with a cruel joy how Sherlock flinches.

The little gesture Sherlock makes to Kiara with the hand not holding his jaw is what makes him stop. Kiara's obvious worry for Sherlock is calmed by her trust in Sherlock, and Sherlock trusts her enough to know she's watching his back – something John always did.

It's something he can't process. Sherlock still sitting on the floor, holding his jaw but not defending himself seems so unreal, so John does the only thing that's possible for him right now. The door is right behind him, and slams shut when he's through, leaving Sherlock and Kiara alone in silence.

 


	68. You Mean Everything To Him

_The door is right behind him, and slams shut when he's through, leaving Sherlock and Kiara alone in silence._

The wind is cold and the little drops of rain are painful on his skin, but John can't forget what just happened. The incredulousnessof Sherlock being alive is still flitting through him, he's not completely sure it happened. The adrenaline coursing through his body makes him more alert, pushes him higher. The instant reaction when Moriarty's daughter entered the room still haunts him.

He is angry. He is furious. But in that moment, only seconds after realising Sherlock had lied to him, had betrayed him, he slipped back into protecting the man.

How could that be his first thought, how could he slip back into it so easily?

 _She helped me do it._  Sherlock's words still vibrate in his skull, and even though he is still angry, and even though he hates the words he hears, he can't help but wish he'll keep hearing them.

When he gets aware of his surroundings again the rain has stopped. He can also hear footsteps behind him, footsteps, he now realises, which have been there the whole time even though the streets are completely empty otherwise.

"You can come out, Sherlock. I know it's you." He'd follow John anyway and that way John's soldier senses wouldn't keep telling him to be more alert than usual.

"Not quite, Dr Watson, but I hope you don't mind if I join you anyway." The girl calls out, and John has to bring himself to think of her as Kiara.

He doesn't turn around, just waits until she has caught up with him.

"Did Sherlock send you?" He asks, fighting to keep the distrust out of his voice.

Shaking her head, she adjusts the collar of her coat.

"I haven't told him where I was going, but without doubt he knows. I wanted to talk to you." Turning his head, the doctor looks at her, surprised.

"Talk to me?"

"You were Sherlock's friend before I was, and you are his best friend. Still, I love him as much as you do. He is my friend, he has saved my life many times, but I know that if he had to choose between us two he'd choose you. And I forgive him for that." Kiara is still not looking at him, only slows down a little when she notices John stopped walking, taken aback.

"I -" He isn't sure what to say, but Kiara simply interrupts him and continues.

"Father had three assassins that day on the rooftop, focusing on you, DI Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. You would have all been shot if Sherlock hadn't jumped. He didn't tell you where he was going because he was scared Moran would find out and kill you all. He watched you through the surveillance in your flat whenever he could. And when you were kidnapped, he nearly sacrificed everything, nearly got us all killed, only to save you. You don't just mean something. You mean everything to him." There's a quiet anger in her voice, and when she finally does look at John he can see a fire blazing in her eyes: A deep love, ready to protect everyone she cares about.

It takes a minute to take it in, then he realises something.

"It was you, wasn't it? Who rescued me that day?" He says quietly, his head still spinning from what he just heard.

"And on the day of Sherlock's rehabilitation, that was me as well." He has to think for a moment until he remembers: She had stood there, on the pavement, and he had nearly run her over. Shy, nervous, though now he realises why. She had told him she believed in Sherlock, and he had been annoyed by it.

When he looks up again, she has turned away again, and ready to walk again.

"The thing I'm trying to say is – I understand you are angry, but don't be too hard on him. He hates himself more for it than you ever can." With that she starts walking away, towards the main street, in the opposite direction they had gone together, towards Baker Street. He watches her go, her red curls bouncing on her dark coat, and shakes his head slightly. What must Sherlock and Kiara have gone through to make her so protective of him?

A black car he recognizes as Mycroft's stops next to Kiara and she gets in, turning around and nodding at John as good-bye.

No car comes up to him, and he is happy about it. Right now he needs time to think about what she said, and the twenty minutes he'll need back to Baker Street seem calming and safe now.

For a moment he thinks about whether Sherlock is still there, waiting for him. But even if he isn't, he will be soon.

 


	69. Hello To You Too.

The day is rainy and grey, the sun is as visible as their leads on the latest case, and all in all the weather mirrors Greg Lestrade's day quite well. Donovan is just as grim, standing beside him and looking through their files for what he thinks the tenth time, but there is something sympathetic about her as well. Maybe she thinks he doesn't notice, but he knows quite well where the coffee on his desk in the morning came from, just like he sees the glances.

It's one of those days. One of the days when Anderson and Donovan would tell him they'd be able to handle it without him, without the  _Freak_. He had always ignored them, and he wishes he could simply do so right now as well.

It's not the first time he wishes Sherlock wasn't dead – not only as one who liked the help, but also as a friend. A rude remark now, an offhand insult thrown at him, at his intelligence, unnoticed by the brilliant man himself, oh how he would welcome that now.

And, as he is pretty sure, so would Anderson and Donovan. On the day Sherlock's innocence was proven, an age of anger, guilt and determination had started – anger for falling into the trap and betraying a colleague so quickly, guilt for believing Sherlock would do all that and determination to find out how Jim Moriarty had managed to pull off a stunt that size.

So on that day, when he was sure everything could only get worse, even more so because Mycroft Holmes was once again standing in his office, he'd never have expected to feel better, to genuinely smile.

Donovan takes over without any question, she is used to the quirks of her boss and knows he'll tell her everything she needs to know when the time is right.

In front of Mycroft's car is another surprise. John has aged a lot more than two years since Sherlock jumped, but he doesn't seem stressed now – rather at peace with the world, and if Lestrade hadn't known about Sherlock's fake jump he'd be worried for John. Right now, he is nervous.

"John." He greets, shaking the other man's hand, not sure how to behave in front of the doctor.

"Greg. It's been some time." John replies, but there is no negative emotion in his voice, only friendliness and a slight stiffness, probably stemming from the nearly two years silence between the friends.

"Indeed. Too long, now, in hindsight."

A slight breeze coming from nowhere interrupts their conversation, as John crouches down to pick up to bags of shopping which had fallen over at his feet.

"Did Mycroft offer you a ride as well?" Greg asks, looking around for the man, but he is nowhere in sight.

"Yes – though he insisted on stopping here first. Did you want to...?" John's voice trails off there, obviously unsure how much Mycroft revealed, so Greg quickly interrupts.

"See Sherlock? Yes, Mycroft told me he's alive, but not much detail."

John nods, relieved, and picks up his bags to walk around the car and get in.

* * *

They pass the time of the ride with small-talk, catching up with what happened in each other's lives in the past two years, and soon they are standing in front of 221B.

"I'm not sure Sherlock is here though, he did mention something about wanting to go to St Bart's. You go ahead, I just need to put the shopping away." John says as they reach the two doors leading to the kitchen and the living room of the flat, John walking through the one to the kitchen, Greg through the other one.

Most things still look like they did on the night he had to arrest Sherlock. There are some changes though. He knows, for example, that John had tidied most of the room when Sherlock was gone, and the genius must have messed it all up in the one week he had been back. A dark blue coat is hanging with the others, one he doesn't recognize, maybe one of Sherlock's from his time away. Two violins are resting in Sherlock's leather chair, both in their cases.

The iPhone on the coffee-table is something he hasn't seen here before, but somehow it looks familiar. What looks even more familiar though is the person connected to the phone via expensive looking headphones.

In the first moment Greg can only stand there in shock and look at the girl with wild red hair lying on the sofa, listening to music from her phone whilst reading a book which looks like it might have belonged to John during his university days – the pictures of the inner bone structure is something he's sure John would have learned.

In the second moment he's glad he brought a taser with him.

"What on  _earth_  are you doing here?" He bellows, pointing the weapon directly at Kiara.

"Hello to you too, Detective Inspector." She answers in a mock polite tone, then reaches to the coffee-table for a piece of paper to put between the pages.

"Dr Watson?" Calling out loudly, she sits up and takes the headphones off, reaching for her phone and turning it off as well.

John's curse and quick steps can be heard loudly, then he appears in the doorway to the living room, can with tomatoes still in his hand.

His eyes widen when he sees the situation in front of him, Kiara currently getting up to put the book away and Greg still pointing at her with the taser.

"I'm guessing My didn't tell him everything – I'll hit him for that when I go home, it wouldn't have taken that long. Well, can you explain everything?"

Greg can only stare at her in confusion. Why is John not in the least alarmed? What does she mean by 'my'? And why is she here?

Before he can ask any of these question, John nods and speaks.

"What are you going to do?"

"Text Sherlock." Kiara answers, already texting and not quite listening any more.

"Where is he? Bart's?"

"Yeah, he left shortly after you did, I doubt he has arrived there yet."

"He won't answer you, you know? He never does."

"He will. Special ringtone."

"A special ringtone? Why?" There is a look of incredulousness on his face, and even though Greg would never tell any one, maybe even a tint of jealousness in his voice.

Kiara hits send and then looks up, her face entirely serious.

"Because it kept us alive." Then her expression softens, obviously reading the same emotions in the doctor's face as Greg did. "I rarely text or call Sherlock, it wasn't necessary before, and now it's just a habit. Calling or texting him meant something was very, very wrong. Once or twice it meant we had found a lead, while he was somewhere else, which was almost never, but usually it was bad news. We know to answer when one of the others calls."

It was getting too much for Greg now, so he put the taser away, as John obviously wasn't worried, and sat down in John's chair.

"Can one of you two explain what exactly is happening here?" Rubbing his face tiredly, he waits for one of them to start.

"I'll make tea?" Kiara asks, and goes to the kitchen as John puts away the violins to sit down and explain.


	70. Lost In Thought

Sherlock does indeed answer me only a few seconds after I flip the switch of the water kettle. For the first time I realise what that means and I can't help but smile. Dr Watson, who is Sherlock's best friend, doesn't get this treatment, this dropping everything when I call. I know it's born from necessity, but still – it shows how much I do mean to him, even though he doesn't show it.

Looking down at Sherlock's reply, I see something else. He signs his text differently now. I'm used to the JH for John Harrison, in case our messages get intercepted or someone gets hold of my phone, but now he wrote something else:

I'll be there soon. - SH

Of course, it's only logical to use his real initials now, but it shows once again how different things are now.

We are safe now, there is no one chasing us any more – no Moran who is breathing down our necks, no criminals who come into My's house and try to kill us.

But there is nothing keeping us together any more either. Sherlock lives at Baker Street now, has done so for a week now, after coming back to life nine days ago.

Mycroft and Sherlock don't communicate really, there isn't that much annoyance in their voices when they do in comparison to the first time I met Mycroft, but I can already hear it's less than it used to be.

I usually sleep at Mycroft's, still, but once here at Baker Street as well, stealing Sherlock's bed, who didn't sleep anyway. The next day when I went home I could see how tired Mycroft was. Even though we took the web down, the memories are still there and so are the nightmares.

Home. It's strange that I think that of Mycroft's house now, but on the other hand, I have lived there for little more than a year.

But what now? This week I have distracted myself with video games and reading, sometimes stuff which I have never found interest in before, but actually, Dr Watson's books are quite interesting. But this life, this relaxed, safe,  _legal_  freedom is something that is getting on my nerves. I had always thought I'd take over Father's network, but since I started working with Sherlock and Mycroft, I had mostly banned thoughts about the future from my mind, concentrating on the goal at hand. Now I've got nothing and it scares me.

"Kiara?" Dr Watson's voice pulls me from my thoughts and I realise the kettle has long switched off and started turning cold again.

"Are you okay?" I turn around to see him coming into the kitchen, a friendly, but slightly concerned smile on his face.

"I – I'm fine. Just lost in thoughts." I smile tightly, feeling guilty for shutting myself off despite his friendly and open manner, but I can't help it. He is nice, but I don't really know him, and therefore don't really trust him. It has nothing to do with him, it's just me keeping myself safe. But my fears are something not even Mycroft knows about, so how can I tell Dr Watson?

I turn around again and flip the switch once again, this time concentrating on the sounds of the kettle to keep myself focused.

* * *

Not long after the tea is ready and I take it out to the living room Sherlock arrives, and it actually makes me wonder how long I really was thinking.

As he puts his coat away, I get up to greet him. I don't hug him or anything, I simply touch his shoulder and smile when he looks at me.

"Hi. Tea?" I ask, expecting the eye roll and grinning when he does it, but he does nod. This time, making another cup doesn't take long and I grab a coke for me from the fridge as well.

Dr Watson told me Sherlock once kept a human head in there, now there are only a heart and some fingers. Apparently Dr Watson has given in slightly, on the first day he strictly told Sherlock not to put anything that wasn't food in there.

* * *

Lestrade leaves about half an hour later. He smiles warily when I reach out with my hand, waiting for him to shake it, just in front of the door.

"You're not going to do any tricks, are you?" He asks, but I can hear he's joking, especially when he confirms it by taking my hand.

I laugh and look him up and down once.

"I kept my side of the deal – I'm not kidnapping you this time. You're not wearing a tie, though." He looks down as well and grins.

We let go off each other hands, him starting to turn away, but there is still something else I need to tell him.

"Detective Inspector." He looks at me again, and this time, I am serious.

"I'm sorry about the last two times we met. I can't excuse the first time, apart from wanting to get away, but the second time was necessary. I wanted to talk to you in private, without anyone else listening in.

And you asked, then, who the bystander was. Do you know by now?" He just looks at me for a second then shakes his head.

"We haven't found any ID, we couldn't identify him by fingerprints or dental records, no one came in to identify him. We dropped the case after Mycroft told us he'd take over. He obviously didn't." I smile at the last sentence.

"No, the case was closed for us. That bystander was Henry Scottson, he was one of the top five men in Father's web. He was the one who made me shoot Sherlock -" At this point, Dr Watson turns his head around so quickly I fear he got whiplash and looks at me, wide eyed.

"What?" He asks, completely surprised and shocked, but I ignore him for the moment.

"- and he was getting ready to kill you."


	71. Molly Hooper

Not long after Sherlock and I are sitting in a cab. We didn't really explain the incident when I shot Sherlock, only the most basics without mentioning Irene at all. It is something scary to talk about, something which pushed me closer to the criminal I used to be – and we never had to talk about it before, Sherlock, Mycroft and I knew what had happened. There's also the point of keeping it all real. I doubt Dr Watson really knows what we went through, and I don't want to be the one to tell him it is a miracle I myself sometimes can't believe that we all survived.

I didn't want to stay in 221B this time, and Sherlock wants to go to Bart's again, says he has some experiments to do.

I already know I'll pay the fare, Sherlock simply can't be bothered, and money isn't a problem for me. It feels unreal, but Mycroft is in the process of taking the money from Father's many bank accounts, and even though I protested, he gave me some of it. He called it my inheritance, so now I have a few millions on a bank account of a fake persona of mine. I didn't want it to be on the account Father made me before he died. There is still a lot of money on it, about twenty-four thousand, and I feel like that's enough. I'm not sure I'll touch the money anywhere in the near future, but Mycroft insisted.

I look out of the window and watch the rain fall. We're not far from the house Father and I used to live in, and once again I wonder whether Andy and David still live there. Somehow I don't have the urge to go there and check. I don't know why, maybe because I don't want Sherlock to meet them, him being a detective and them being guilty of a few crimes. Maybe also because I feel like that part of my life is over – even if I did visit them, I wouldn't know what to do.

I feel Sherlock's gaze on me and turn around to face him.

"You okay?" I ask, trying to figure out what his expression means.

"Do you know who Molly Hooper is?" He shoots back, without answering my question.

"Molly – Wait, wasn't Dr Watson so angry because of her? Because she helped you fake your suicide?"

"Yes. Did your father ever tell you anything about her?" It's still strange to hear him talking about Father like that, I know he hated Father, but for my sake he is trying to be civil.

I rack my brain for anything he could have said, but no, there's nothing. I shake my head and Sherlock frowns.

"About three years ago? Maybe you've seen her, brown hair, bit mousy?"

I think again, but there's nothing I can remember.

"No, why?"

"The first time I met your father, he disguised himself as someone working at Bart's, he called himself 'Jim from IT'. He faked a relationship with Molly Hooper to get to me through her."

I can feel my eyebrows rising up, but it does sound like something Father would do.

"And let me guess, he broke her heart?" I ask, hoping not to go against someone with a huge grudge.

"Not quite. Molly used to harbour a crush on me and tried to get over me with him. When she introduced me to him, I deduced he was gay – a simple, but good disguise. She broke it off after, her words, three dates."

"Okay... Should I tell her who I am?"

"If you want. She's trustworthy, she'll keep it secret."

* * *

Sherlock's description of mousy doesn't quite fit Molly Hooper any more, even though I can see what Sherlock told me. She seems nice, greets Sherlock and me with a smile, which is slightly more towards Sherlock, and lets him go towards the work bank straight away.

Molly Hooper and I stay standing near the door, and I look at my shoes, feeling a bit out of place. It's strange to feel so self-conscious, but the circumstances are something I have never encountered before. There had never been anyone else but Father and me, he had never really taken interest in women, or men in that matter, and now I'm standing in front of the woman who had been his girlfriend. I can't help but wonder how much of that had been real.

Then I shake my head. It doesn't matter whether who he had been with, or what he really thought about Molly Hooper. It's long over now.

"So – I'm Molly, Molly Hooper." Molly says, and I look up at her friendly smile.

"I'm Kiara," I answer, and swallow once, trying to shut the feeling of nervousness away. "Sherlock says you knew my Father."

She looks interested now, and tilts her head slightly.

"Oh? What's his name?"

It hurts to hear her talking about Father in present tense, but it's not her fault, so I lick my lips, tongue suddenly dry.

"James Moriarty."

Her eyes widen in sudden fear and she takes a step back, eyes flicking towards Sherlock and back to me.

Obviously, Sherlock heard everything, as he raises his voice now.

"Relax, Molly, it's fine. She isn't like him, she's safe."

Molly is still breathing quicker than usual, but she nods.

"Okay. Okay. I hope you're right."

"I usually am." Sherlock replies, but she ignores him, swallowing once, twice, and looks back at me. Putting out her hand, she grips mine as I shake it.

"He never told me about you." I let go off her hand and purse my lips.

"Same here." I say, and then look away.

"Well, I need to get back to work, Sherlock, call me if you need anything."

As she hurries towards another work-bank, I slowly walk towards Sherlock and sit down on a chair next to him, more shaken about her reaction than I'd like to admit.

I never thought about how Father looked like to other people, what other people thought of him. But despite growing up with a man who didn't really have emotions, I still have a sense of morals, if a twisted one.

I never realised how much people feared him, even now after his death, and how I must look to them because of that.

* * *

Sherlock sits in front of his microscope like he's glued to it for more than two hours. Now and then he asks me for equipment or strange liquids, which I mostly have never heard of before, so after some time Molly has enough pity for me to give me a quick tour.

I can see she is uncomfortable with me around, constantly tense, but I am grateful she is at least willing to try and work around it.

It does help a lot though, and even though I don't know the names of everything, I'm getting better.

After one and a half hours I decide to go to the cafeteria and get something to drink and eat. I already know what Sherlock wants, coffee, black, two sugar, so when he speaks up so quietly Molly can't hear I know what he means instantly.

"Café Latte, three sugar, and a blueberry muffin." With a nod I get up and leave the labs.

It's not hard to find the cafeteria, it isn't far away, but getting the two coffees, a coke for me, the muffin and two chocolate bars to the labs proves to be slightly more difficult. After nearly dropping it all for the second time, I hear a voice behind me.

"Hey, you need a hand with that?" Behind me is a young man, maybe twenty-two, who seems to be here on an work experience. He looks relaxed, without a care in the world, and for a moment I both pity him and am jealous. He has never seen the world, never nearly died, never stared down the barrel of a gun.

Then I realise he is looking me up and down, obviously hitting on me, and I hide my smirk. It is flattering, especially from somebody who, as I now realise, is rather good-looking: Tall and lean, hair spiked up slightly, and a boyish grin on his face. Still, I have enough worries without worrying about boys, so I decide not to react to his flirting – I do need his help though, so I smile back.

"Yeah, that'd be awesome." I make my voice a little lighter, more girly to disguise myself, to disguise the troubles someone who is sensible might be able to hear.

He takes the muffin and the coke, brushing my arm whilst doing it, and I adjust the coffees in my grip.

"I'm Will by the way." He says casually, and again I have to hide a smirk. He might be physically older than me, but his way of talking his still so gentle, so naïve, that it makes me feel old.

"Kiara."

We continue talking until we reach the labs, where he helps me take the coffees again.

"Have a good day, Kiara." He says, smiling, and then turns around and leaves.

I stand in front of the door for a moment, surprised by the kindness this random stranger has shown me for nothing. Then I shake my head once to clear it and enter the lab.

Sherlock simply reaches out his hand to take the cup, and looks up when I don't give it to him, worried I might drop everything.

Molly seems honestly surprised that I brought her anything, especially something she liked.

"How - ?" She starts asking, but then looks at Sherlock and nods slightly.

I see her sniffing at her coffee a minute later, and decide that she still doesn't trust me, but I don't comment on it.

* * *

At some point, Sherlock is finally done with what he wanted to do, and is out of the door so fast that I hurry after him. I catch up with him outside the hospital, where he has already flagged down a cab, and get in with him.

It's a short trip to the point where I want to get out. I haven't walked through London for some time, and I also want to get home. It's later than I had told Mycroft I'd be home, but after a quick text he won't worry.

The wind is a bit chilly, so I wrap my coat tighter around me. The quickest way to Mycroft is through the side-alleys, which I enter not long after.

Suddenly I hear running steps behind me, and I tense up. I'm maybe three meters away from the main street, not really in the side alley at all, but the last years have made me careful.

I keep walking, but when I feel a hand on my shoulder, I whip around, pushing the person against the wall with my forearm on their throat, my fist raised behind my head, ready for a punch.

That's when I realise it's Will, the boy I talked to in St Bart's, who is looking at me with wide eyes.

"My god, Kiara! Did you take martial arts or what?" Lowering my fist, I take a step back and breathe deeply to get my heartbeat under control again.

"Kind of. You just scared me, I'm sorry." I answer, realising too late that I spoke normally. He doesn't comment on it though, I'm not sure he notices.

"Well, who did you expect?" He asks worriedly and looks around.

"It's the side-alleys." I reply with a shrug.

"Why are you using them then?"

"They're quicker."

"I'll come with you, you'll be safe then."

I simply nod. Should a situation he's thinking about happen, it's not me I'm worried about.

* * *

**Sherlock's POV:**

Lestrade is long gone when Sherlock arrives back at Baker Street. According to John he left shortly after Kiara and Sherlock had left.

He never really appreciated 221B enough, Sherlock muses, now that he is playing his violin and looking down at the cars driving through the Baker Street. It slowly gets less, many cars still driving through despite the late hour.

At around ten o'clock Mycroft calls. Sherlock has half a mind not to answer, not wanting to deal with his annoying brother right now, but something sounding surprisingly like Kiara tells him to pick up.

"Mycroft? What do you want?" He questions, violin still in hand.

"Is Kiara at Baker Street?" Mycroft replies, and something in his voice is strained.

"No – she left the cab soon after we left St Bart's, to walk to your place. Where is she?"

"She texted me then, telling me she'd be here soon – that was two hours ago!" Sherlock can now hear the worry in his brother's voice, and he has to admit, he feels it as well. Kiara is very independent, but she is reliable.

"You called her already?"

"No answer. I'm currently looking through the CCTV as well, but she has an annoying habit of walking along blind-spots."

"Keep me updated." Sherlock hangs up, they both know there is something seriously wrong here. There is no reason for Kiara not to voluntarily walk home – she knows how dangerous London can be and knows the extent of the criminal world better than most.

John is still sitting in his chair, but he stopped typing on his laptop, looking up at Sherlock, concerned.

"Is everything okay?" He asks, but Sherlock can hear in his voice that he knows something is wrong.

"Kiara is missing."


	72. Abduction

There is nothing. It doesn't matter where Sherlock looks, or how many times, but he can't find any reason for Kiara to be absent.

The last time she was seen by a surveillance camera was in a side-alley not for away from where she got out, with a boy Sherlock is sure he has seen at Bart's before, but after a quick background check he rules him out as an attacker. Innocent, normal medicine student, on a work experience at the hospital, and as he can see on the CCTV, easily overpowered by Kiara if she wanted to.

When his phone finally rings more than an hour later, it's not Mycroft. Lestrade's voice is tired and annoyed, but there is also concern.

"Is Kiara okay?"

"What do you know?"

"There's this young man here, a William Tyler. He says he and a girl called Kiara were attacked two hours ago, and his description fits your Kiara to a T."

Sherlock and Mycroft have never been at New Scotland Yard so quickly.

* * *

Lestrade meets them in front of his office, hair tousled because of his fingers raking through them, his suit crumpled. There are coffee stains on his shirt.

"I only heard it by accident, I was walking past the room Mr Tyler was interviewed in. I thought you might to question him as well, but be nice. He is pretty roughed up."

Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft are really listening, and push into the room in question as soon as they can.

Roughed up, as Lestrade said, is putting it lightly. William Tyler's nose it broken at least once, but not bleeding any more. The dried blood partly hides the split lip, but it does nothing to disguise the bruises on his chin and jaw. He also sports a black eye, and his arms are bruised as well, his hands hurt where he tried to stop his fall, the blood already dried.

Wincing every now and then, he is currently telling the story to one officer, only glancing quickly at the newcomers.

"We were walking, chatting, but she was more quiet than the first time I talked to her. Looked around a lot, but still seemed confident. Suddenly there's like three people, attacking us.

It was weird. I knew she did martial arts, but she just took on two of them at the same time, giving them quite some trouble, too.

I'm afraid I wasn't much use -" he tries a smirk and and then winces, "- but at least not all of them could attack her at the same time. She got the worst of it, though. Anyway, one of them knocked me down, and I could hear her shout my name, but it distracted her.

It's all a bit blurry, I couldn't really see, but that was when they got her. I tried to get up, but one of them kicked me in the head. When I woke up an hour ago, they were gone, as was she."

He ends his recollection, looking a bit lost, so Sherlock decides to intervene.

Taking a picture Mycroft holds out for him, one of Kiara and Moriarty from her bedside table, he grips it tightly to hide Moriarty and holds it out for the boy to see.

"Is this her?" He asks, and can't hide the urgent note in his voice.

Tyler looks at the picture for a few seconds, then nods.

"She was a few years older than on this picture though." He says, a bit unsure.

All of them twist around when the door slams. Mycroft is nowhere to be seen.

* * *

William Tyler is free to go home when Sherlock declares him as innocent and useless for anything further, apart from setting them on the right trail on the first place. John scolds him after they leave the room, after all, Tyler had helped them a lot, but Sherlock knows he is on edge. He knows he is being cruel and brash to everyone around him, more so than usual for him. So when Sherlock goes looking for his brother a few minutes later, he can't help but think about how this is what Kiara usually did. The reasons are different, he wants to discuss a theory about Kiara's abduction with Mycroft and not be too far from Lestrade's office, the first place new information will get to, but it's still something he hasn't done for years.

He feels panic and grief rising up at the prospect of him doing what Kiara usually did –  _does_ , he corrects himself, she isn't dead, and he can't bear to even acknowledge the tiny yet – but there is no use panicking and he knows it. So he shoves down the emotions that threaten to rise, his face a calm mask once again when he turns another corner and finds Mycroft there.

Their exchange on the way back to Lestrade's office consists only of a few words, ideas which are followed by the right conclusions in each other's brains only moments after the words are voiced aloud. Still, they discuss so much in their own way others would have talked for hours.

Lestrade pulls them inside with a worried, but also partly relieved hint in his voice. The relief, as they realise when they see the computer with a video running on the screen, leading on them being there on time.

"It's a life feed," Lestrade explains quietly, "they called only seconds ago. Apparently they want to talk to us."

This is something more familiar to Mycroft, so Sherlock doesn't protest when his brother reaches the table quicker than him and claims Lestrade's chair as his own.

The room visible is bare, concrete walls and floor suggesting a basement. Apart from the man currently setting up the laptop with the video-call-connection, no one is in the room, and there is no sound.

It's frustrating. Sherlock doesn't recognize the cellar, can't even place the general location, and there is no clue anywhere. He can read a lot from the man, sure, but nothing useful. When he deduces that the man has a smaller sister, he shudders.

Suddenly there is a sound connection as well and a well dressed, but small and not really imposing man enters. He smiles at the camera once, then starts to speak, but Sherlock only partially listens to him. This man is much more useful than the first one, and now he sees something new.

"...nothing against the girl, really. She is just the means to an end." The fine suit speaks of money, the product in the carefully styled hair and the twirled moustache are clear signs for him trying to seem important, and Sherlock wonders whether he can use that to his advantage. When he realises that the man stopped speaking, he focuses on the whole picture again.

Not a moment too soon. Anger pulses up in him when he sees Kiara being pushed into the middle room, the small man who spoke first having stepped aside.

They rid her of her light hoodie so she is just standing there in a tank top and jeans, but she isn't shaking in the slightest, despite her hands being handcuffed behind her back and the blindfold over her eyes. No, there is a certain static quality in her, restrained energy, only waiting for her turn to fight, and some of the anger is replaced by pride.

"Kiara?" He asks, hoping the voice call is directed both ways, and lets out the breath he didn't realise he was holding when she turns her head.

"Water, twenty years empty, outside London!" She calls out, then a fist strikes her face and her head whips around. At the same moment she lifts her knee and manages to kick her attacker in the groin. He doubles over, but now the others come at her, none of them holding her arm any more, but obviously enjoying the game.

Kiara is good. She fights with all she has, once using her handcuffed hands to hit someone's stomach behind her, sometimes almost knowing from which the next blow comes, but there are four – now mostly angry – man and she is handicapped twice.

" _Hinter dir!"_ Sherlock shouts in German, and in just the right moment she ducks down and to the side, sweeping her leg behind her. The man falls and grunts, and when he gets up again, his nose is bleeding.

Despite some of those small successes, Kiara wasn't unhurt to begin with, and in reality, she doesn't really have a chance.

The men quickly realise Sherlock is helping her with her hints in German, so they turn off their speakers for the moment.

This doesn't stop Sherlock from helplessly saying the helpful words in German, but Kiara can't hear them. Mycroft, Sherlock, Lestrade and John can only watch in horror as she is beaten more and more, can only watch as she falls to her knees, then completely to the floor.

Most of the pride Sherlock had felt is replaced by anger again, but there is still this glimmer. This glimmer of pride that refuses to go down, just like Kiara, who gets up again and again, no matter the consequences. A final kick to her nose knocks her back, and by the way she doesn't even try to break her fall, they all know she is unconscious. Her fiery red hair is around her, some of it lying on her face and shoulders, some of it matted with sweat. It doesn't matter which parts you look at, most of it turns into a darker red because of the blood flowing from the various wounds on her face, arms and torso.

It's too dark, and Sherlock nearly gags when he sees the sticky fluid in the curls.

"You see, Iceman, we just want to show you how disillusioned you are. You aren't nearly as powerful as you think, if you can't even protect your friends." The man from the beginning says, stepping closer to Kiara's limp form. He puts his foot on her right wrist and smiles. "She'll be dead in eighteen hours, and there is nothing you can do to prevent it." He stamps down and the sickening cracks of the two bones in her arm fill both rooms, the basement and the office. With that, the video stops, and they are left looking at the dark screen, horrified.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hinter Dir! = Behind You!


	73. Searching

They search frantically. John doesn't think he has ever seen Mycroft so worried, so  _human_ , but it doesn't reassure him like it used to with Sherlock. No, it scares him. It scares him because it makes him realise that even Mycroft is close to giving up.

He won't, though, John is sure of that, and neither will Sherlock – or Lestrade or John himself for that matter.

Kiara isn't just the daughter of Moriarty who had somehow turned good and gained the Holmes' brothers' trust, she is also someone he knows, someone he might have become good friends with had the circumstances been different.

Kiara's description isn't very helpful. It narrows the search down, sure, but as Melissandre reports a few minutes after she arrived, there are just too many different spots she might be.

It surprises him, when for some reason his head snaps out of the cloud of worry for a second and becomes clear, how many people do actually care for her, are bustling around and searching for her.

After half an hour Sherlock gets up and starts calling people, friends, he calls them, and John can't help but wonder how he knows those people when Mycroft tells Lestrade that he doesn't want to know.

The time flies past, their precious eighteen hours dripping down to fifteen as they try to narrow the possible locations down. If they just searched every one of them, the kidnappers might hear – after all, they are going on the hope that the kidnappers are too cocky to move right now. Besides, it would take too much time.

Sherlock is still on the phone, talking rapidly in both English and German, sometimes shouting with fury in his voice, sometimes speaking so deathly quiet that John is happy not to be on the receiving end of that voice.

However, Sherlock doesn't seem to be exactly angry at the two women he is apparently talking to – John hears him saying the names Irene and Margery repeatedly – he seems angry at how helpless he is.

It is strange, not really being of much help whilst Sherlock is talking on the phone, Lestrade checking records and setting more officers on the case than he technically should, Melissandre running around, glued to her phone but not quite able to keep the surprise off her face when Mycroft gives some orders that show he isn't quite who he told said and the older Holmes himself accessing and hacking into files Lestrade carefully doesn't see.

John himself can't really do much, so he makes another round of coffees and then looks at the map again. There are so many little pins on the map, so many locations, mocking them all, that he wants to vomit.

"Margery is contacting her people, asking about people with the motive and the means to do this. Irene is calling her whole client list as well, undoubtedly blackmailing them into helping – Mycroft, they are both furious." Sherlock suddenly says, loud and spitting the words out like bullets, and John has trouble to understand them all.

In the second it takes his brain to catch up, Mycroft already nods.

"I know. Margery has contacted me as well already, she is sending me data to compare with what we already have. She says she expected something like this." Mycroft is talking nearly at the same speed, but a lot calmer, despite the frantic worry on his face – apparently now that he has some possible leads he can at least partly distract himself with something.

"Wait, Irene?" John interrupts, a thought poking the back of his mind.

"Adler. She's alive, yes." Sherlock says, only barely turning his head towards John, his voice cold.

"And – Margery?" John asks, deciding not to ask further about Irene when the subject is obviously a sensitive one.

"A friend of Kiara's, used to be part of the network." Sherlock replies, his attention already elsewhere, then switching to John again, then to Mycroft's computer and the map.

John feels dizzy from the speed, the feeling and the urge to vomit again only intensifying when he sees that Mycroft is watching the recorded video-call again – trying to find anything, anything at all that will help them find their friend.

Sherlock and Mycroft are grim, but determined and watch. Melissandre is pale, watching the video for the first time, and Lestrade is still focusing on his own files, now and then talking to Donovan, who hasn't made any comment at all towards Sherlock. Smart woman, she's still alive.

John is in the bathroom and vomiting his guts out.

* * *

Two hours later they are all desperate. There are still so many possible locations, even with the extra information, and they have received further pictures of Kiara. She seems conscious in most of them, but John mostly wishes she weren't – as a doctor and a soldier and now after the cases with Sherlock he knows there are many ways of hurting a person without killing them.

* * *

Sherlock's POV:

John's sitting in Lestrade's chair when he nods off into a restless, fitful sleep. The others don't interrupt him, not even Sherlock. He feels reminded of a situation ten months ago when they had been searching for Mycroft. Him and Kiara. A lot has changed since then.

John wakes up when they have five hours left and the list of warehouses is considerably shorter.

The two hour mark keeps ticking closer when they reach their fifth warehouse. The other four have proven worthless, no sign of entry in any of them, if you don't count some cocaine junkies squatting.

It is one of the more promising ones. The location and availability are more fitting, and even though they know Kiara's information is likely to be slightly incorrect, it fits it perfectly.

It is also alight in flickering flames.

By the time the fire brigade arrives, Sherlock is sure anything they could have found is burnt. Him and John walk through the sodden, black ruins, water still running down the walls and over the floor, and look for anything they can find – anything that will tell Sherlock where Kiara is.

Lestrade is on the other end of the warehouse, searching there, and of course it's him that finds something.

He finds a table, the cracked and molten camera, the room they might have filmed it in. And he finds the bodies.

There are a few, but Sherlock can only concentrate on one. It has the right size, and there are metal hand-cuffs around the wrists, but there is not much else to tell – every data he could have seen is burnt, the corpse black.

When he finds residues of pink plastic in the room, he stumbles outside. Not even quite outside, he vomits.


	74. Born To Live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A song I have in mind for this chapter and caused the name of it is "Geboren um zu Leben" (Born to live) by "Unheilig".

Sherlock's POV:

The sun shines through the windows of 221B and betrays the beautiful day outside, but the two habitants are sitting there, restless, waiting.

The continuous tapping of Bach's Partita No. 1 is annoying Sherlock. It is annoying Sherlock because it reminds him of two persons, one who he never wants to see again and one who he would give nearly everything for, just to see her healthy and alive. And so it takes a few seconds to realise that he is tapping. He stops it instantly and looks up at John, who is sitting opposite him, typing away on his laptop, looking up at Sherlock every few seconds.

And Sherlock hates every second, every second he is sitting there, waiting for the news. It is hard, so hard, to not know whether he will see Kiara again.

It was different with John, he knew John would be okay eventually, he knew that if he didn't see John again he wouldn't be sad about it any more because he would be dead. But with Kiara, with Kiara it's different. Kiara won't be okay if he never sees her again, because that would mean that she was dead.

He doesn't want to think about what he'd do if she was dead, so he goes into his mind-palace into her wing. She has one, just like John has one, even though John's is slightly bigger. It is full with memories, full with who she is.

And he looks through happy memories. Not through their adventures with the threads, but the times they were just laughing, the times they were annoying Mycroft, the times they were happy together. Comforted by the smell which is in her wing, he listens and watches and remembers.

After about an hour, there is a knock at the door and Lestrade comes in. Sherlock barely notices himself standing up, looking at him, begging him silently to say that the DNA doesn't fit. That Kiara is still alive. And then Lestrade opens his mouth.

"Sherlock – I'm sorry. I -" His voice breaks and Sherlock feels numbness taking over.

"She's – She's dead?" His voice is weak, not believing the words he's saying.

"I'm sorry."

And then something inside of Sherlock snaps. He grabs the nearest thing he can get (his phone) and hurtles it to the wall, then John's, a teacup is next, John can barely save the laptops.

And with every thing he throws, he screams his grief out to the world.

Then his eyes lock on Lestrade, and within a second Lestrade is pushed against the wall, his face very close to Sherlock's.

"Tell me it's not true. Tell me! Please!" He is shaking Lestrade as he is doing it and after a few seconds, Sherlock lets go off Lestrade.

He looks around at John and then Lestrade and sees shock and sympathy in their eyes. But it's not right. They didn't know Kiara, not like he did, and it's not enough.

Suddenly outside sounds like an amazing idea and he leaves. He doesn't bother taking his jacket or his coat or his scarf, and he runs from the truth.

* * *

Mycroft's POV:

The old house is empty and lifeless since Sherlock and John reunited. Without his hot-blooded brother and Kiara, who does still live here, but often sleeps in Sherlock's bed in 221B, Mycroft feels lonely. He never had this problem before, but now he misses the crashes, the laughter, the general weirdness.

He can't sleep peacefully any more. The only real sleep he gets is when Kiara is there, which is only every second day or so – he knows it isn't because she likes Sherlock better, she is just restless. He knows that it is not enough, he knows that his work isn't as good, but he doesn't trust anyone any more. Since Anthea betrayed him – captured him, tortured him – he doesn't really trust anyone, besides Kiara and Sherlock. He doesn't know why he trusts Kiara – very bad background, no reliable source to be trusted. Well, beside Sherlock, but Sherlock has been wrong before. Maybe it is because she helped him get through the worst of the trauma with Anthea. But then again, she did shoot Sherlock. He doesn't know. It's just a gut-feeling, and somehow, he trusts her.

Melissandre, his new assistant, is not yet in the tiny circle of people who he trusts partly. She doesn't even know what he really does. Mycroft wants to test her, wants to be sure. But he knows, whatever she does, however reliable she might seem, she won't be completely trusted. Not after Anthea, he thinks, and rubs the thin scars that cover his hands.

He knows that the scars won't fade. Despite what the doctors said, they will always be visible. Maybe that is exactly what Anthea had planned. If she had planned to let him go alive.

A sudden knock pulls Mycroft out of his thoughts and he goes to answer the door. It's something Thomas would usually do, but somehow, Mycroft likes the feeling of this tiny bit of control. The control he lost in that basement.

It's not Kiara. He can't help but frown at himself when he realises there was a tiny bubble of hope in his chest. When he sees who did in fact ring the bell, he frowns even more. Sherlock is in front of him, soaking wet because of the rain. His dark curls are flat against his head which is bowed onto his chest. He is only wearing his shirt and trousers, not the suit jacket or his coat. The purple fabric of his shirt is very dark now.

Mycroft can only step aside as Sherlock slowly comes inside. He doesn't make a snide remark, he doesn't say hello. He just stands there, and after a few moments he starts running towards the stairs.

Of course, Mycroft follows him, astonished and shocked why Sherlock would behave like this. He finds him in Kiara's room.

The room is as messy as always. There are some clothes thrown across the room, the bed is unmade and her DVD and games collection are mixed up.

And in the middle of it all is Sherlock. He sits cross-legged on the floor, burying his face in one of her shirts.

"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice cuts through the silence and Sherlock looks up. His face shines slightly in the light and the older brother realises with a shock that it's tears.

"Sherlock, what's going on. What is going on?" A horrible dread fills Mycroft's mind, and he squashes it instantly.

"The DNA fits. She's dead."

Mycroft can only stand still, shocked, and watch his whole world crumble.


	75. The Time After

**Mycroft's POV:**

It sometimes feels like the time is moving in chunks. Mycroft would wake up way too early and then bury himself in work, doing more for the government than he had in the last year. He can't help but feel guilty for the sudden increase in time Melissandre has to be at the office – even though he offered her half time she said she was fine with it.

It is comforting, but also mind-numbingly dull. It's still about life and death, still about the fate of a whole country and therefore connected to the fate of the whole word, but it wasn't the same. The sound of breathing of another person, which he had despised before while working with files, is now something he longs to hear.

The work he does is more long term and didn't have an immediate effect; maybe, he thinks to himself, he understands now why Sherlock loves being a detective this much.

Not that Sherlock is doing all that much better, he knows. He can see it in the tense lines of his shoulders when they see each other, in the way Sherlock snaps at him and then frowns, almost as if he wants to apologise. Mycroft understands, he feels the same whenever he makes a snappish remark at his brother – it's almost as if he can hear Kiara telling him how even though he was a politician, he was absolutely rubbish at remaining polite if in the same room with his brother.

After a week, a day before the funeral, he already feels himself being more polite to Sherlock. He doesn't want to be reminded of Kiara again and again and again. Maybe it's also kind of fulfilling something he knows she would have wanted.

* * *

**Sherlock's POV:**

Sherlock clenches his jaw as he watches the casket being lowered into the ground. It's closed, the body inside is so burnt that a DNA test was the only way to make sure it is her.

The feeling of rough, disfigured plastic together with the sharp edges of the box in his left hand freezes him. It's only a burnt, pink piece of a phone case and a memory chip, but they are parts of the very few things Kiara held close.

He doesn't know whether he'll actually look at the contents of the chip. There won't be much on there that's useful to the case, but on the other hand, being at this funeral isn't either.

John is a steady presence on his right side, shooting him concerned glances every few seconds.

_A week after the funeral_

Sherlock looks down at the name again. It looks strange, engraved in the grey stone, with the two numbers beneath it:

_Kiara Moriarty_

_1995-2013_

There's nothing else on there, no little note, no ornaments at all. Sherlock and Mycroft had agreed on that – Kiara was so much more than could written on a stone, so why attempt to do so at all?

John is standing next to him, hands in his pocket, chin tucked to his chest. It's cold for June, nearly July, but it's still nice. For a moment Sherlock wishes it would be raining heavily.

"She always expected to die." John looks up sharply, surprised at the suddenness of the statement.

"I mean, we all knew how likely it was that it would end bloody, but..." Sherlock let his voice trail of, not knowing how to explain the curious ways he'd seen Kiara's mind work.

"What was she like?" John's voice is quiet, and too understanding.

"Do you want me to describe her now?" Sherlock snaps irritatedly.

"Yes."

"She kept me alive." Sherlock turns around and walks away, not waiting for John to catch up.

* * *

_A month after the funeral_

**John's POV:**

Sherlock won't talk about Kiara at all. He gave her clothes, those which were left behind in the flat, to Mycroft, along with her headphones and anything else he can find of her.

John quickly realises it's no use trying to ask him about her – wherever he is, he just becomes unbearably rude and blocks any further questions. Wait, not quite. They have been to the gravestone twice now, and the second time Sherlock had opened up, not much, but more than before. John had listened with horror, fascination and sorrow to Sherlock's words. He didn't know Kiara well, had always met her with distance, and now he heard about the under-age girl who threw herself in front of Sherlock to stop a knife. About the girl who had gone through so much, had lost nearly everything she had and was still willing to fight for something she thought was right.

* * *

_4 months after the funeral_

It is strange, in a way, that John can be so happy and still feel sorrow. He isn't sure whether he grieves or mourns, he had accepted Kiara in 221B Baker Street after not long after and had sometimes talked to her, but now, after four visits to her grave, one each month, each with a little memory of Sherlock, he wonders how much of her he really knew.

For her she had been a point of conflict, daughter of Sherlock's sworn nemesis, but still having saved his life many times, barely eighteen but still with an arrogance matching Sherlock's.

Sherlock is different. Different to how he was before the fall, less cold, but also different to how he was after the fall when Kiara was still alive. He is careful now. Seems to understand the sorrow of his clients, if not well, then at least in parts. Swallows every time they have a murder or kidnapping victim with red hair resembling Kiara's.

Sherlock doesn't openly grieve, but he smokes more. His music sheets are constantly being filled.

Mycroft is burrowing himself in work, as far as John knows. Of course, he says he is far behind, and that might also be the case, but John can see the reason, even if the brilliant mastermind himself can't.

When he is once again fetching the phone for the detective, he feels the slightly out of shape, molten form of the small piece of pink plastic that once used to surround an iPhone.

The headphones on the skull on the wall are new. Neither Sherlock nor John comment on the fact that they used to be lying around on the table, connected to the iPhone.


	76. Kiara Moriarty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get Out Alive - by Three Days Grace  
> Just One Yesterday - by Fall Out Boy

_About six months after the funeral:_ **  
**

The sun is barely up, the weak rays of light are fighting against the shadows of the room and the twilight makes everything look unreal. It's not the first, and certainly not the last time Mycroft is up too early. He usually starts in five hours, but as always, the nightmares have stolen him the sleep. He likes to pretend that he doesn't have emotions, that he is not weakened by them, but in his heart he knows that he definitely is. If you can call it weakened, and in these early hours of the morning, he does.

The nightmares consist of memories of his time in the basement with his former PA, of feeling the knife slicing up the skin on his hands, arms and back, of the feeling of betrayal. He rubs his hands at this thought, tracing the fine white lines. Even though they remind him of Anthea and make him feel queasy, they are also a reminder of Kiara. Of the time after the basement, of the closeness they shared.

Mycroft was never in love with Kiara. It was closer to the love he feels for Sherlock. She had been there in the weeks following the basement, when the nightmares and panic-attacks had ripped through him and had shaken him to the core. The ability to delete and store away uncomfortable thoughts and memories had helped him through his whole life, but this deep betrayal was too hard, they had been there the whole time.

He sighs when he remembers the paranoia. The fact that he had not seen the real side of Anthea had made him lose his belief in his deduction skills.

He remembers the feeling of her. When they had lain in his room in his bed together, her arms around him, soothing him through the aftermath of the nightmares. It had been her idea, after she had ran more than twice a night into his room to wake him up.

He remembers her touching his shoulders, his face, hugging him, trying to fight his demons.

He remembers the time he thought her a traitor, after she had shot Sherlock, and the guilt he had felt when he realised his mistake and her life was teetering on the edge.

He also remembers the last time he has seen her alive. The video of her, standing in the middle of the room, blindfolded, trying to defend herself. How she had been beaten, until she stopped moving and the blood darkened her red hair. The words of her kidnapper are still in his head, as if he had seen the video only minutes ago:  _"You see, Iceman, we just want to show you how disillusioned you are. You aren't nearly as powerful as you think, if you can't even protect your friends. She'll be dead in eighteen hours, and there is nothing you can do to prevent it."_

He had seen it not long ago, in fact. The scenes from the video are part of his nightmares as well, and once more he curses his photographic memory.

With a shake of his head he tries to get rid of the memories. Why should he think of them when they already haunt him in his dreams?

Four hours pass while he is working through files and readying himself for the day. It has nearly become a ritual for him; without a real PA it is much harder to do his job. Still, he isn't sure whether he will ever tell his new one who he really is. He trusts Melissandre. Not much, barely at all, but enough to let her work for him. To talk to her and let her help with the unimportant matters. Kiara had had a good taste in characters. Saving this girl from suicide had been a brilliant choice, even if she hadn't known what would happen then.

Melissandre arrives an hour early. She somehow seems to know he had a nightmare, just like the last time and the ones before.

She carries in a tray of sandwiches and tea and Mycroft has to fight the feeling of deja-vu. Anthea betrayed him nearly a year and a half ago, why is it still so hard? He should be able to block it out by now.

Melissandre knows what happened. Not exactly, but Kiara had filled her in, only the most important stuff. But she isn't stupid. She worked for Mycroft long enough to recognize the signs, to see when he is in danger of crashing.

"May I share it with you?" She asks after a moment of consideration, there is enough. Mycroft can only look at her for a moment.

"She told me you would do this. She was a clever girl, wasn't she?" Mycroft can hear the sadness in her voice, Kiara had been her friend as well. She had seen the video of Kiara and her kidnappers as well, had helped searching her, even if she hadn't known.

He can only nod, he doesn't trust his voice. When did he become so emotional? She puts down the tray on his desk, busies herself with pouring the tea, careful that her sleeves are up, and pretends not to notice that her boss is trying to repair his mask.

After a minute she has put out the two plates that somehow were on the tray, and given Mycroft his cup of tea, and they both sit in silence. Mycroft watches her sip her tea, slowly, obviously deep in thought.

After ten minutes, both are done. Melissandre puts the dishes on the tray without a word and stands up. She looks at Mycroft once more and nods, before leaving the room.

Mycroft stays in his seat and looks down on his hands for a moment, looking at the big scar on his left hand which annoys him so much, then gets up himself and leaves as well.

* * *

Two hours later, he comes inside again, followed by Melissandre, who carries some folders and tells him about a minor thing which she thinks is important, as soon as he is in his seat and looking at the first folder. When she finishes, she looks at her boss for a moment and can't help but smile fondly. Kiara had cared for him a lot, and she can see why. The incident this morning made clear how human the ice-man is in reality.

Pulling herself out of her thoughts, she swallows once and leaves the room.

* * *

Two minutes later, a shadow comes out of the corner. The person is quiet and smiles at the man behind the desk, reading his exhaustion and sadness within seconds. Her smile mirrors the one Melissandre had only minutes ago, but with a tinge of sadness as well.

She comes to a stop and swallows once, and now, finally, the British Government notices her. He gasps, feeling unable to breathe, and looks over her face once, twice, three times.

"You should appreciate her more, you know," says Kiara.

**_The End._ **


	77. Timeline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the timeline of the entire story, in case you're interested.  
> Here, now at the end, I have to thank you all for reading this. It has been completely posted on ff net for a long time but I wanted to do so here as well.  
> On ff net there is also the beginning of a sequel posted, which might be continued at some time, but as far as I can see not in the near future. If you are interested in it, PM me and I can send you the outline of it.

15.01.2011 Kiara meets Sherlock and John in the museum

27.03.2011 Kiara's 16th birthday  
01.05.2011 Moriarty breaks into the Tower  
13.06.2011 Moriarty's court date

15.06.2011 Sherlock jumps, Moriarty shoots himself

16.06.2011 Kiara gets Moriarty's letter, depression starts

~July.2011 The fine threads are gone

07.11.2011 Kiara snaps out of depression, starts training again

20.03.2012 Kiara's first attempt to run away

24.03.2012 Kiara's second attempt to run away; looks into 221B again

27.03.2012 Kiara's 17th birthday; not mentioned

31.03.2012 Kiara goes to Paris; goes to club the first time

01.04.2012 Kiara goes to club second time; sees Sherlock

02.04.2012 Kiara goes to club third time; kidnaps Sherlock; makes deal with him

09.04.2012 Kiara and Sherlock rent hotel-room

12.04.2012 Kiara kidnaps Mycroft; Sherlock reveals himself to Mycroft

16.04.2012 Sherlock and Kiara drive to Holmes Mansion

17.04.2012 Kiara finds network in fail-safe app

18.04.2012 Kiara plays AC; Sherlock and Kiara watch Watson

25.04.2012 Smith and Stone

26.04.2012 Kiara wakes up

28.04.2012 Kiara is fully okay

30.04.2012 Mycroft announces Sherlock's oncoming rehabilitation

02.05.2012 Sherlock is rehabilitated; Kiara walks through London, meets John

30.05.2012 Sherlock takes cocaine

03.06.2012 Kiara shows Sherlock tattoo, Paul Timothy and deputy are caught, Joseph Daunt escapes

08.06.2012 Kiara meets Melissandre

19.07.2012 Mycroft is kidnapped by Anthea

20.07.2012 Kiara and Sherlock find Mycroft, Anthea dies

23.07.2012 Mycroft wakes up

27.07.2012 Mycroft's bandages are changed, Kiara sees full extent of Mycroft injuries

06.08.2012 Mycroft, Kiara and Sherlock go home; Mycroft has nightmare

07.08.2012 Kiara and Melissandre meet for lunch; Melissandre finds out about who Kiara is

10.08.2012 Kiara starts sleeping in Mycroft's bed

14.08.2012 Kiara and Sherlock fly to Russia

15.08.2012 interlude, explanation, description

16.08.2012 St. Petersburg, Sherlock and Kiara kiss: Kiara is stabbed

19.08.2012 Melissandre gets a call from Mycroft, visits Kiara in hospital, sees Sherlock for a moment, meets Mycroft

04.09.2012 Sherlock and Kiara watch CCTV of the basement

 

_~.09.2012 Joseph Daunt's deputy_

_17.11.2012 Scottson's deputy_

 

20.11.2012 Scottson calls Kiara

20.11.2012 Kiara asks Sherlock about the human abdomen

21.11.2012 Kiara shoots Sherlock

05.12.2012 Kiara 'visits' Sherlock in the hospital

 

10.12.2012 Mycroft, Sherlock and Kiara go home, Mycroft forbids Kiara to come into his room, tells her not to call him My

27.12.2012 Mycroft sees Kiara sleeping outside his room

28.12.2012 Kiara finds information about Daunt's accounts

30.12.2012 Daunt breaks into the Holmes manor, (nearly) kills Kiara, Sherlock resuscitates Kiara

31.12.2012 Mel visits Kiara, Kiara wakes up

01.01.2013 Kiara and Mycroft talk

09.01.2013 Mycroft forgives Kiara

14.01.2013 Kiara has the nightmare, sleeps in Mycroft's bed for the first time after she shot Sherlock

15.01.2013 Two years anniversary of Sherlock's and Kiara's first meeting

19.01.2013 Kiara shoots Scottson, meets Lestrade again, finally kidnaps him, Mycroft tells Lestrade not to reveal Kiara's identity

03.02.2013 John is kidnapped

05.02.2013 Kiara and agents help John

17.02.2013 They find Moran's deputy James Maynard, are nearly killed and flee

18.02.2013 Mycroft asks Kiara what happens, she leaves and hits the punching bag

 

_09.03.2013 Meet Maynard again, capture him_

 

17.03.2013 Maynard kills himself in cell

 

27.03.2013 Kiara's 18th birthday, Kiara has flashback

 

31.03.2013 Kiara decides to meet Margery Grey

06.04.2013 They meet Margery

14.04.2013 They get back to London

15.04.2013 Sherlock has problems shaving, Kiara helps

 

28.04.2013 Moran

29.04.2013 Kiara tells Mycroft about Maynard

 

30.04.2013 Sherlock's and John's reunion

 

12.05.2013 Kiara meets Lestrade again, then Molly and William Tyler, is then kidnapped

14.05.2013 Kiara's “body” is found

15.05.2013 DNA test results come back

 

21.05.2013 Kiara's funeral

 

28.05.2013 Sherlock and John visit Kiara's grave, John asks about Kiara

30.06.2013 Sherlock and John visit Kiara's grave, Sherlock tells John some stories

 

13.11.2013 Kiara reveals herself to Mycroft

 

 


End file.
